Category: profession

As the man took another sip of the crispy Chardonnay from one of his favourite cellars, yet another concept demanded attention by oh-so-sweetly digging its talons into his thoughts. What some may construe as an evil grin crept across his demeanour, his lips almost twitching with glee. The sun blazing down in all its furious glory, appreciation for the shadowy haven under which he found himself that afternoon joined the feeling of satisfaction – satisfaction associated with the apparent onslaught of creative thought, inspired by a milieu he rarely has the opportunity to appreciate.

It is a well-known fact that I (still) don’t write nearly as much as I would like to. My professional ambition ruled my life for the past five years or so and did not, in conjunction with my social endeavours, necessarily leave a lot of space for much else. This past December also saw a man broken by Life take an extended leave of absence for the first time in years. I needed time to think, for a change, about a lot of things.

I set out promising myself that I would, amongst many other things, write more and so on and so forth. The breakaway from my fast-paced life in our wonderful Metropolis was going to be ideal for catching up on myself (if that makes sense). Needless to say, I found myself with more than enough time and opportunity to simply amble around with only myself as company (which is yet another tale to be scribbled down in the near future). Those of you who are curious enough to follow me on twitter or fortunate enough to be counted amongst my “friends” would have caught a whiff of the said trials and tribulations during this time.

it was good being home :)

In-between being cancelled on by a wide assortment of Cape Townians, almost murdering a few family members and appreciating my beautiful home country I also gave thought to the avenues I should explore in my writing. Quite recently, I was approached by a well-known publication (amongst others) and asked whether I would throw a piece or two their way. I was very flattered, of course, by both the commercial and personal requests (thanks again, guys), but simply couldn’t commit to anything outside of my profession at that point in time. I was already getting dangerously close to overworking myself and finding myself in the same position I did just before my little “tumble” back in 2008.

Even though the (very wide) assortment of scans, pokes, prods and probes by machines worth millions concluded that there’s nothing wrong with my mental ability (to the contrary, strangely enough), there were some notable changes after they finally discharged me from hospital. Over-and-above a bunch of negligible itches (like having to learn how to walk from scratch), I had noticed something not-quite-right with the colourful vocabulary I was so used to delve into.

Exemplum: I would know that I have the perfect word to express myself at that very moment, or smile as I describe whichever situation I found myself witness to…but I could not, for some inexplicable (and maddeningly frustrating) reason, put my finger on it. The word would literally be on the tip of my tongue – I just couldn’t remember what it is. Being as passionate as I am about my writing, I was driven far beyond the proverbial edge of what little sanity I have left each and every time this happened. Eventually I resigned myself to the fact that I simply have to calm myself down, close my eyes and consider the ocean of words prattling about in my noggin.

Flirtatious Writer’s Block aside, I was still determined to write more – about more. I decided to keep my current style and feel to the blog, but would definitely like to expand on the subject matter. Even though I don’t shy away from being referred to narcissistic bastard, I felt that I would most definitely enjoy writing about some of the topics I have been approached for over the past year or so. That being said, I would like to invite anyone who reads my drivel on a regular basis to assist in deciding what exactly and/or how much I should expand said subject matter.

Enter my very first (digitally verified) Poll:

As you may or may not have realised, I have quite an affinity for pretty much all these topics – and would most definitely enjoy writing about all of it, corrupting each topic with my own style. So, here’s to hearing from everyone and looking forward to a literary revolution throughout MMXI.


Oh, and P.S. go check this out: it’s frikken hilarious…

A growling hum fades into the background as it is drowned out by a sound revolutionised by a society in what some refer to as modern day. Megalomaniac chants of counter-culture, from the underground, halo-maniacal and harder than the rest. Celebrate relentlessness, menace to society. Refuse is our inspiration, terrorism our trade ~ sabotage and piracy ~ chaos our mental state. Like a fiendish tropic virus spitting bile at all you whores, razor-sharp tongue-in-cheek poking in your open sores.

I was going to write an extensive piece on one of many topics I find disturbingly interesting… sipping on my g&T and listening to some really good music, however, I decided against it. The past couple of weeks proved to be a roller-coaster of note: emotional high and lows, reminders of the financial Hell survived in drudging through my articles, people thought to be friends tallying their blood-money, old friends resurrecting themselves in a fashion I always thought they would (and thus confirming suspicions nigh decades old), value recognised in new people, nightmares of both lives past and future, death.

I have so much to write about. I would gladly sacrifice my ever-increasing bright future in the Corporate World to simply live each day…too bad it’s not practical. I haven’t met the love of my life. I won’t be able to afford a nutritious meal every day. I won’t be able to make a living. Hell, I can’t even afford to get to that sanctuary amidst my lost rainforests ~ the nearest stench of civilisation endless leagues away. It’s days like today which remind me of my sincere love for music, books, movies and my general disregard toward humanity’s affinity for sanity.

I write tonight because it is my Passion. It’s been just over six months since I’ve “officially” taken up the quill once more. Granted, I haven’t been able to share the World with the rest of you cursed lot in as much artful splendour as I would have liked over the past couple of months, but at least I’m writing again.  Following a hurricane of feedback from both my social media offerings (faceBook and twitter), I was enticed to blog ever so often as well.

Here I could go on and on about all sorts of codswallop reeking of anything I like. And I wasn’t necessarily limited to a mere status update or 140 characters. Furthermore, I have tons of drivel written in many a drunken haze – things I just needed to share with someone at that very moment, albeit in a somewhat extremely altered state of mind (I do some of my best work in said state). After several nudges and many gracious compliments on the short communicae I force upon people I consider (possibly) worth talking to, I decided to take my writing beyond the furious evenings of bashing at Qwerty’s ingenious invention and waking up the next morning only to find a splash or 7 of whiskey dangerously close to the equipment I use to carve a living out of this stone we call life.

That being said, I’m really going to try and subject any of you who might be remotely interested in my drivel a bit more. May you look forward to the odd splurge of digital ink I taint your existence with, my friends….

I know I sure as Hell am.


Servamus et Servimus

The tarmac digging into my face brought with it a torrent of memories from almost a decade ago. Ironically enough, even though I (quite literally) left half of my body’s skin merged with Schanzen Road on the day replaying itself in my mind’s eye, my facial features were to remain relatively unscathed for at least another seven years or so. The many years of blood, sweat and tears associated with slaving away in pursuit of the revered Charted Accountant (SA) qualification also sneaked in there, just as I felt my four-figure business suit getting acquainted with gravel and an assortment of oils.

The situation I found myself in at the moment, however, was not the result of some ignorant fool endangering the seemingly bright future of a young man on a motorcycle, but rather the culmination of what some may refer to as our wonderful “law enforcement” system. This incredible service to society, of course, has a world-renowned reputation when it comes to protecting and serving decent, law-abiding citizens – an astounding untarnished track record of its commitment to fighting crime and corruption is absolutely iron-clad (*cough cough* Jackie Selebi *cough, wheeze*). But enough about that, let’s get back to my face being smashed into tar.

Even though I had to go in search of a bigger belt just a couple of months ago (in order to accommodate my uncomfortably expanding waste), I was rather surprised that apparently it took five or six police officers to wrestle me to the ground – I shudder to think of my bear-like strength when I actually make use of my gym membership instead of simply giving them a monthly contribution out of the goodness of my heart. The possibility that these “officers” were somehow deformed or incapable of perform strenuous physical acts was, however, also a very strong possibility – it took even more of them to escort my (female) friend from the establishment hosting our lovely evening.

At first I paid no heed to the throng of people in SAPS uniforms accompanying my friend – but when she did not rejoin us after about two minutes, my concern prompted further investigation into the matter. I thus proceeded to venture outside, in search of my friend, only to find her surrounded by a mass of people – the majority of whom were wearing SAPS uniforms. I approached the little get-together and enquired whether there was a problem and, if so, what the nature thereof was. According to our upstanding arm of the law, my friend was apparently the mastermind behind an elaborate fraud scheme. The case had already been opened at the local police station and she had just been pointed out, by an apparently very credible person, as being a filthy criminal.

At this point in time, a few more uniformed enforcers decided to join us. Subsequent to confirming with my friend that these allegations were indeed unfound, I too was boxed in by the group representing our illustrious police force. The phrases “take you away” so that we may “talk in another place” were distinctly communicated to us. Both my friend and I agreed that we were more than willing to go down to Douglasdale police station so that we may resolve this obvious misunderstanding.

The offer of our compliance appeared to upset quite a few of these morally sound individuals, who then all started speaking at the same time. I made vocal my observation that “this is obviously an unnecessary inconvenience to my friend and you are unfairly harassing her.” Threats of being arrested were then lobbied by several of the individuals, still surrounding us.

Feeling the tension rise, I singled out the guy who looked like the proverbial “big cheese” – surely the “leader” of this pack attained his rank by encouraging sound judgement and exercising his ability to defuse volatile situations. Note should be made that Big Cheese wasn’t sporting the washed-out SAPS uniforms his comrades were in. Still, hoping to solve the matter with reason, I asked the man for his name.

I’m no expert in the fine art of cultural differences, but my enquiry appeared to make Big Cheese very angry. The logic inside me was burning to know: “Surely, if this is all above board, you don’t have a problem giving me your name, officer?” Still, Big Cheese refused. Directing the query to the group of officers was also fruitless – they were obviously following the pristine example set by their fearless leader. Even now something just didn’t feel right. I managed to push my way through the collection of head-strong constables and managed to acquire a scrap of paper and a Pen – rumoured to be more powerful than the sword.

Upon wrestling my way through to my friend again, I brandished the Pen with full intention to use it. My faith in leadership unwavering, I asked Big Cheese for his name once more. My persistence resulted in the SAPS calling in back-up: another team-mate appearing to wear a black bullet-proof vest – you know, just in case my friend and I decided to open fire on them with our vast arsenal of deadly weaponry. Mr Big Gun was disturbingly excited about being assigned to confront me, preceding to steam-roll in my general direction and demanding boisterously why I dared ask for names…

Seeing that diplomacy had obviously failed, I noted “this is clearly a case of harassment targeted at my friend, as no uniformed person here is willing to give their names.” This upset Mr Big Gun a lot. Infuriated might actually be a better term. He lunged at the severely-out-of-hand-disturbing-the-peace-more-than-people-who-strike-and-threaten-nurses-at-gunpoint-to-leave-Intensive-Care-Units brigand (that’s me, by-the-by), seeing as this foul blight on humanity (me again) was obviously a dire threat to society. My courageous friend threw herself in front of the battle-hungry Mr Big Gun, resulting in the frenzied individual almost ploughing through her with the exact same intent.

“You cannot hit me – I am a lady!” came the cry from the brave woman taking on the armoured Mr Big Gun. Fearing for her safety, I once again faced the Enforcer. Introducing myself, as gentlemen do, I foolishly asked for Mr Big Gun’s name as well. The next moment this oaf grabs me by my chest and starts pushing me out of the group. His valiant action impelled another one of their merry band to join in the fun, and I was dragged off to one side for some “personal” attention.

Not necessarily appreciating being man-handled by a bunch of people entrusted with our community’s safety, I resisted. They were kind enough to share the fact that “We take you away! We go talk in another place!” as we approached an unmarked, silver BMW. Digging in my heels rather firmly, I exclaimed “this is not a police vehicle! What are you doing with me?” The relatively innocent question was met with a response by the person wearing the black bullet-proof vest: “we are taking you away! We are going to sort you out!”

Enter my monthly contribution to the gym down the road versus Bravestar’s “Strength of a Bear!” trick: I was not going to get into that BMW. Those who claim they know me rather well will attest to the fact that once I set my mind on something, come Hell or Noah’s next ark-ride, I ain’t letting go. The unexpected resistance queued calls for assistance to the group gathered where my friend was being intimida-, oh wait – “interviewed” – by our friendly officers. A bunch of them trotted over and assisted Mr Big Gun in reminding me what tar and gravel tastes like.

I voiced my concern as I felt the hand-cuffs slice through my skin, wanting to know whether they were simply accusing me of something or actually arresting me. I really wasn’t keen on a ride in that silver BMW – I’ve heard stories about it, and had worked too hard getting to where I am in life to fund the local police’s Bribery and Extortion gig. It is now approximately a month after the ordeal, and I still don’t have feeling in half of my right-hand thumb. I was almost relieved when I was hoisted on high and carried over to a marked police van rather than some slick BMW.

The “taxi-service” took me to Douglasdale police station, where I was thrown in a holding cell. Being an incredibly inquisitive person, I continued to pursue my quest for knowledge of pretty much anyone’s name at that point. In-between our scenic drive there, being escorted from the van to the cell, being handled by several people, etc. – I was still without a name. The cuffs took quite a while to get off, as the person charged with that uncomfortable duty struggled rather extensively in getting the actual mechanism to eat away enough flesh so that they may be removed.

Whilst idly admiring my quaint little cell, I noticed the pious source of the police’s reasoning behind our arrest arriving. Two very well-liquored boys stumbled into the little corridor next to my new-found home. I was astonished. Here I was sitting in a holding cell – someone who worked many hours free-of-charge in community clinics and served society in public service financially for more than four years – because some drunk kid pointed out my friend as the mastermind behind some bogus fraud scheme. And they still weren’t willing to tell me why I was there in the first place!

To make matters worse, one of the little snot-heads decided that he needed sustenance to continue their apparently well-planned rouse in making a couple of bucks with the help of our illustrious SAPS. And no, he wasn’t going to settle for a normal garage pie like any other ingrate his age: he wanted Andiccio’s. I’m doing pretty well in life, and I can’t even afford Andiccio’s! But let’s not make this about me.

What followed were several hours of doing the dance designated for us filthy criminals who dare endanger society and whom are not willing to pay extra for “protection” in our own neighbourhoods. The dance involved being carted around from “institution” to “institution” without being allowed to contact anyone from the outside world. I was also told that “no-one will find you” after I refused giving my name without being told what I was arrested for.

After eventually being released without the need to pay bail (yes, the allegations were that preposterous), we were informed that my (female) friend was still going to be held for the maximum time the law permits. Yes – they are allowed to hold you for 48 hours without having to charge you (or give you any good reason, apparently). Now, you can try and object this, but only when you’re fortunate enough to be assisted by someone who knows what they’re doing when dealing with the System (read: lawyers).

Sure, you can wait around to be processed without any help and put your faith in all that is right and good… but guess who you have to go through to get that far: the SAPS. Now isn’t that ironic?

Thankfully, at the end of the day, justice prevailed and two innocent people were allowed back into society, so that they may till away at their meaningful contribution to society. It may have cost them several thousand Rand and an experience neither should ever have faced in all their living years, but at least those Rands stayed out of the corrupt police officers’ grubby paws.

//’bunny out, living yet another day to fight both corruption and stupid people.


Following my release, I learned that the po-po needed to seize every piece of technology that looked like a computer from my (female) friend’s home – you know, for the case and whatnot. When the accusers admitted their incredible stupidity and my friend was (finally) released, we proceeded to set off on a quest of reclamation in the hopes of recovering the tools of her trade. Upon successfully extracting said goods, we started the arduous trek back home from the Ominous Johannesburg CBD.

Just as we thought we had finally been freed of Bribery and Corruption’s Very Fat And Smelly Bosom (for the day, at least), my Silver Carriage of Sanctuary (Volvo, to those of you who might lack my extremely over-active imagination) got high-jac- I mean – “pulled over” by the flagship of our war against bribery: the Johannesburg Metropolitan Police Department. Murphy received a very colourful array of “blessings” as my nostrils were set ablaze with the stench of very obvious bribe-fishery. And surprise-surprise: the whole exercise was re-enforced with the threat of being arrested!

Thankfully I had discussed the whole ordeal with my family the previous night, and was subsequently provided with a very useful number:

0800 203 712
This, my friends, is the Fraud and Corruption Hotline. As I took out my mobile phone, little Miss Piggy’s superior ambled over to my window and enquired as to what I was doing… I proceeded to share the fact that I’m simply phoning the said hotline, as I believed I was being held and threatened there illegally.

Before I could finish my sentence, I was waved on with the words “you may proceed” from the uniformed officer.


An eerie glow dances off the walls in a room, subtle ticks and clicks echoing from the strange device. An array of blue infusions cascade off wood, steel and fabric… complimented by the sporadic blinking of tiny LED buttons intent on communicating the sheer volume of work at hand being processed voraciously. Another Nitrogen bubble pops in protest as a crooked spine attempts to right itself, following countless hours of supporting a back bent over the ever-demanding Keys of QWERTY.

the glow.... the beautiful glow........

The origins of Tiberium...

I felt inclined to write that little piece last night whilst taking a quick break from being a genius. Those of you who follow have been fortunate enough to be deemed a friend (or eagerly follow blips of my existence on twitter) would know what I’m talking about. Strange how these bouts of creativity always seem to hit me when the stress levels are peaking, exhaustion kicks in or while I find myself embracing the loving arms of inebriation…

That being said, on to today’s meaningless banter: professionalism. I’d like to think myself being able to do the whole “working as a professional” scene rather well, even if I do say so myself. More often than not I find myself putting my clients’ needs and satisfaction before my own. I would much rather get a pat on the back from a satisfied client than someone living under the illusion of being my boss. As a matter of fact, I have been fortunate enough over the past few weeks to receive recognition from both avenues.

yep. you know it.

For years I had to be subject to what, in my opinion, may be considered legalised slavery – i.e. I was busy completing my articles for CA (SA). Even though I have the world’s respect for the women who was ultimately my boss, I found myself squaring off against pretty much all other forms of “authority” in our firm on quite a regular basis. I refused to be dragged into the slums of office politics, and endeavoured avoiding said politics as soon as its pungent odour seemed to whiff around. This, obviously, made some people very angry – not to mention frustrated.

Fortunately, I managed to catch the attention of an individual who had the same arrogant swagger as I did, of course sprinkled with a healthy dose of disdain for stupidity as well – acknowledgement was made relatively early on in the contracted era of slave labour. I got handed the more complicated projects and notoriously difficult clients (strangely enough), thriving on it instead of buckling under the pressure as the majority of brown-nosers would have hoped. This did not go unnoticed, which also (thank goodness) resulted in the majority of my projects being run directly with our main partner (boss-lady referred to above).

stfu, sir.

Though not at all times, but somehow the facts above facilitated avoidance of individuals who were intent on practising Neanderthal-reminiscent management styles. These kindergarten principles were still shoved up my nose, along with everything else the other control freaks deemed necessary for nasal ingestion, but I held fast to simply keeping my head down, doing my work and delivering a quality product to our clients. Sure, it’s not easy when you have a fat blob blocking your road to success, but by golly: I know how to operate a friggen chain-saw and I wasn’t going to let some sans ambition slug stop me! Needless to say, everything worked out pretty well.

In comparison, the new company I find myself working for at the moment is (almost) completely the opposite. Since day 1 here I’ve made no secret of my approbation for the executive team running things. Without exception, the guys at the top are all, simply put: brilliant. Even though every individual has years of experience on you and an unimaginable wealth of knowledge, they work side-by-side with the grubs and encourage personal development and professional growth around every corner. Regardless of them being able to afford it ten times over, there isn’t even the slightest suggestion of any “holier-than-thou” in the air – very pleasurable (and right down my alley) working environment.

But enough subliminal PR for today – in making sure you actually enjoy your work, the folks here pretty much guarantee quality service delivery to their clients. Whereas I held on to the fact that my clients were happy with my work in the past, I can now enjoy my superiors’ acknowledgement of “a job well done” as well (which is pretty frikken awesome, to be quite honest). In my opinion, the way any business is managed (especially its employees, growing proportionately with its size) determines its overall success. Ironically enough, the majority of companies sporting both middle and top management fail to realise that a happy employee is going to be far more productive than someone who’s miserable.

I’d also like to find out from you guys what motivates you to give your best in a professional sense of things? Customer satisfaction and learning something new are my main drivers – I love taking things apart, understanding them completely and then being able to put it all back together again (possibly even in an improved state, if at all possible). Should someone be able to benefit from the whole process (be it my clients, colleagues, employer, etc.), all the better!

Those of you who have spent more than just a drink in my company should also know I have big plans for the future… I distinctly remember someone I used to work with a couple years back even saying “No, Ian – I’m afraid I won’t be able to employ you on a full-time basis… you simply have too much ambition!”

I enjoyed that.

Someone not necessarily knowing you all that well having that much faith in your dreams and aspirations – just the right kind of thing facilitating the drive to excel even more :)

As divulged way up top, I started writing this little piece just because I felt like (digitally) scribbling some useless crap while waiting for a range of SQL databases to migrate and settle into their new home. I hope you inexplicably find some value in it and thus thank y’all for giving me the opportunity to waste a couple o’ minutes of your life – ones you’ll never be able to get back :)

Here’s to wishing you all a wonderful week and looking forward to hearing what motivates you to “Be All You Can Be” (in the professional world).

//‘bunny out.

The Piano Man

this man is a legend. i went to see him last night with my folks and sister. first time in the country and the crowd loved him. Billy Joel knows how to make music. haven’t seen my folks in ages either, so it was a nice family gathering-type thing.

my boss (still can’t believe i actually got one of those, ugh) got a hold of me as well the other day. apparently you’re not allowed to rest your eyes after two consecutive weeks of murderous f.cking work and not sleeping enough – never mind the factory fumes we have rammed down our throats every day and the shite we have to eat up from the stupid-arse client. i need to kill someone again. it just makes you feel better… but yeah, i’ve actually got to go and be productive again now.

i don’t even feel like writing, actually… so bugger off and go something else!

well, i haven’t written anything in months. a lot has happened since then: i actually started my professional life, i bought my own place (kind of), the girl whom i thought i would marry cheated on me with a real dick, i overdosed on everything i could get my hands on… life’s been busy.

shortly after my previous post (in january, ffs), i started looking for a job. can’t really remember if i mentioned it before, but i had been told that i have reached the stage where i need to be 100% financially independent. i messed around for the most of january and february while looking for a job. there was many a night that was filled with enough alcohol to take down a smallish buffalo, lamenting my unfortunate position of having no future whatsoever. i enjoyed the last days at varsity where i could just keep going and going and going and not having to worry about what i look (or smell) like the following morning.

eventually i found a place where i started my articles for CA, all excited about the concept of actually getting paid for doing some work (not that you could call an article clerk’s “salary” pay).

ag, you know what? fuck it. i got this in an e-mail today:

yeah, FUKiTOL. so my life sucked. so the girl of my dreams cheated on me. so i OD’d. yippety-frikkin-doo-da. what do you care anyways? why the hell am i writing this? i don’t get paid enough either. bitch bitch bitch, moan moan moan.

moving into my new place today, it’s schweet… 2 bedrooms and a loft, can’t wait to get in there. sure, its gonna be empty as hell (article clerk salary=something laughable, even in Africa) – but at least i won’t have to deal with other people’s crap any more. mmmkay, i should prolly go look busy before my boss (can’t belive i actually have one of those now) shits on me for being tired on a friday afternoon.

‘ave a good one y’all. drink too much, your liver dies with you.

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