Queen sings along to God Save the Queen

The British upper class was agog at the wedding of Harry to Meghan when the Queen surprised the 1.9bn audience by mouthing along to 'God Save the Queen', the first time she has done this in public. It is thought that her speech trainer, James Winslow-Wilkinson-Bathurst, had her practising it many times before the wedding, in the same way that other steps in the ceremony were minutely rehearsed. She is known to have recently become aware of the universality of the anthem and that it's not singling her out at all. Meghan (now known as Princess Henry of Wales - and that's another story) had 53 flowers of Commonwealth countries sewn into her veil, while the wedding ceremony itself was blessed by Bishop Michael of Chicago (not to be confused with Princess Michael of Kent - which is yet another story) in a rousing sermon, focused on the paramountcy of love, that left some of the British elite too stunned to speak. Insiders claim that the Queen has always felt a bit spare when everyone's singing God Save the Queen and she's not. As it was clear to all that the theme of the wedding was diversity, globalisation and inclusion, the Queen appears to have had this flash of insight that the anthem was really for queens worldwide (royal, not gay). Observed Anthea Schleswig, long-time Royal Family confidante: 'Europe alone has a whole host of queens. One thinks of Sylvia of Sweden, Margrethe of Denmark, Sonja of Norway and Maxima of Holland, all adding royal splendour to their nations.' Indeed, it is thought that One was thinking of them and others too like Letizia of Spain. And One is thought also not to have forgotten the many kings that still dot the planet across Europe, Asia and Africa. 'They all need to be saved,' avers Schleswig. Some perceptive commentators have added that not only ought these royals to be saved from external threats but also, for some at least, from themselves. The British Queen is known to be particularly self-effacing and, as she's aged, increasingly aware of her own human frailties. An element of self-doubt may have crept in, encouraging her to sing out for a spot of divine guidance. So far, King Mswati III of Swaziland, in power since 1986, has not indicated whether the Queen's enlightened change of course has caused him to re-think his policy of repression and greed in his small landlocked country.

Masi woman fed up with poor-but-meticulously-clean label

Rebecca Mondanga, a resident of Masi, is fed up with being chararcterised as poor but meticulously clean, like those legendary wives of Welsh miners.  Rebecca is constantly debating whether to deliberately leave items of fluff under a table or specks of grime on the corner of a window. 'It's a way for wealthy people to feel better about the poor; actually they are setting the standards for cleanliness as a salve to their own consciences,' Rebecca points out. 'If a wind springs up and blows dust through the township, what must I do - leap up from my sewing and remove all semblance of dirt on the off chance that some budding Hemingway might stumble across my humble abode on the search for some African inspiration?' Rebecca suspects that a writer like Somerset Maugham or even Conrad had a couple of swings at the comforting myth, although she doesn't think it's at all a popular theme with contemporary African writers, knowing as they do what a hassle it can be putting up with such elitist fantasies. Of course, as many hygienists are now starting to realise: there's also the issue of healthy dirt. In many middle class households people are incessantly wiping kitchen tops and would never dream of eating food dropped on the floor. But when you live in poverty the only thing you've really got is your health (that's if you do have it) and exposure to germs at an early age is a must. Rebecca concedes that the one time she did get her house spotless was when President Obama came to Masi in his Black Hawk helicopter. 'We went through a cleaning frenzy, it's true, after all it was Obama! But there were four Black Hawks altogether and the DUST! Well it was just terrible and all my surfaces were smothered with it.' On a purely commercial level Rebecca has been considering contacting the manufacturers of Cleen Green or Mr Muscle. 'Maybe one of these big companies will pick up on the poor-but-clean angle and I'd be quite happy to clean every day if I became their poster child.'

Metrorail implements brilliant solution to delayed train problem

Cape Town's Metrorail has come up with a brilliant solution to its train-delay problem. All the Cape Town lines: Southern, Northern, Cape Flats and Central have been running consistently behind time for many months. Worst-hit has been the Central Line, which at one point was not running at all. In such a case the new solution being implemented would not have worked. However, with the Central Line now back on track, albeit running 60 minutes late, the clever idea hatched by technical and IT experts at Metrorail can kick into gear for all lines. The solution is deceptively simple: with all the various lines running consistently late, between 20 and 70 minutes, Metrorail has simply shifted the timetables to adjust for the late runs. For example, the schedule now shows that the 7.20 train from Khayelitsha to Cape Town will only leave at 8.20 and all the other trains on the timetable have had their times moved forward accordingly. Says commuter William Lechaba: 'Like many brilliant solutions, this one is beautiful in its simplicity. Now I don't have to stand around for over an hour hoping that my train will move, never knowing when that's likely to happen. Now I know that the 7.20 is delayed until 8.20 I only have to rock up at about 8.10.' In one fell swoop the whole Metrorail timetable has been shifted to line up with the actual traveling times of the trains. So, instead of radio stations like FMR and Good Hope Radio dwelling on the delay times for Metrorail in their regular morning and evening traffic updates, they are simply able to note that Metrorail is running on time. This means they can spend more time on more pesky issues like road accidents, bus strikes and other hair-pulling events that plague Cape Town's hard-pressed commuters. Avers Juan De Bosco, who has recently settled in Cape Town from Buenos Aires: 'The time shift in Metrorail actually suits me quite well because it brings me closer to the quotidian cycle in Buenos Aires, which starts later in the morning and ends later at night. I'm not nearly so homesick any more, with this  adjustment.' Metrorail is still working on the Fish Hoek-Simonstown connection where no time-table, even one adjusted for delays, is available owing to bulldozers on the track.

North Korean border guards peed off about peace talks with the South

North Korean border guards, based in the demilitarised zone (DMZ) between the two Koreas are privately very upset about silencing of K-pop transmissions, emanating from the South. Li Mang Ze (real name withheld) complains: 'We loved the K-pop which pumped out every hour: it helped us get through the day and also fantasise about what life could be like in the night-clubs of Seoul.' The broadcasts have stopped in the interests of peace and harmony between the two Koreas, in advance of talks about to get under way. 'When you're spending your whole day, day after day, making sure your cannons are accurately trained at some specific point in central Seoul, about 50 km away, things get a little boring and the K-pop was a pleasant distraction, especially compared with the puke-worthy martial version of popular music mandated by Chairman Kim', avers Li. 'I bet he personally doesn't listen to any of the so-called inspiring songs he puts out to the people. He's probably tuned into live streaming audio of one of the Seoul pop stations, and jiving in the palace, or wherever he hangs out.' Li and his colleagues lament that they have to pay for this lovey-dovey peace initiative, which no one believes is actually going to lead anywhere. 'I mean what're we gonna do anyway if we stop aiming all our guns at Seoul?' Some enterprising entrepreneurs are making plans to turn the DMZ into a tourist museum where people can wander through the artillery batteries and look through telescopes to see how much of Seoul would have been obliterated in the blink of an eye, in some moment of madness. Muses Li, 'If that happens, I'm outta here...' In the meantime Li, who is also studying for a maths Masters in artillery trajectories, is hoping that any detente, even if only temporary, could lead to him and his mates being able to tune into South Korean soapies, or K-dramas 한국드라마 which are taking the world by storm.

Pool noodle saved from a fate worse than death but laments drought

Swimming pool noodle, also known as PVC Silon, was only too pleased to be rescued by a passing driver after falling out of the back of his previous owner's pick-up. Silon was betting he was headed nowhere but the dump, or even worse just crushed up in some sewer. Actually, where he is now is in this pool on the smart side of town, no less. Kidney-shaped pool.  Diving board. He laments: 'There are no kids sadly except at Christmas when these visitors come from Namibia to see their grandchild. Then  the cover comes off and the little guy just loves to float and splash around.' Actually a lot of the time he feels like Michael McIntyre's herbs in the pantry. And not the basil and thyme, either, or even the paprika... more like the dill or tarragon which barely get to see the light of day except when his mistress is trying to impress some high-ups. Silon has struck up a relationship of sorts with pool cleaner, Zodiac, whose vibrating hose every now and then gently collides with him. The hose throws up little waves which are like a kind of massage or rocking chair, helping to ease the blues away. There's also an ambivalent connection with the floating chlorine dispenser but they aren't close owing to the harsh aroma of the chlorine tabs. Since Silon has taken up residence things have changed quite a bit, mainly for the worse: the cover has altered things a lot. 'I remember the doves that pecked around the edge of the pool and the moonsets over the mountain. But that's all history now.' Silon knows that we all have our dreams and hasn't given up on his: to join his ilk in an indoor pool and help with the swim training for kids but in the meantime he consoles himself that at least he's not in the same dead-end as the poor discarded umbrella, cloth torn and lying flat around the side the house. Occasionally he spots the owners lifting a corner of the cover and having a quick wash to save water or to rinse a sports shirt. Silon wants the water restrictions to end just as much as anyone, although worries that pool covers are now a fashion feature, which will take years to fade. He is at pains to stress that rumours that the plastic he's made from contain hormone-disrupting chemicals called phthalates, which have also been linked to asthma, obesity, and lowered IQ in children are just that, rumours.

City transport overwhelmed by replacement, replacement bus and train services

The replacement bus service system for the route between Simonstown and Fish Hoek recently set off an unstoppable chain reaction with the advent of a replacement rail service to replace the replacement bus service. The problem started in mid-summer when strong south-easterly winds whipped up so much sand on to the rail track that all trains were cancelled. Instead, municipal buses were laid on to transport the numerous workers and tourists who ply the route. However, the bus service deteriorated when a number of buses were damaged by vandals or simply became unserviceable (u/s). The situation became so bad that the municipality was forced to accelerate plans to remove the sand from the tracks and institute a replacement rail service to replace the ailing replacement bus service. With the council having to devote resources to both repairing buses and keeping the track clear for the replacement rail service it did not take long for the replacement rail service to fall behind the demand from passengers. As white sand once again started to cover the tracks, the council requisitioned buses from other routes, mainly Mitchell's Plain, to set up a replacement, replacement bus service to cater to travellers who no longer had the option of the replacement rail service. In turn planners in Mitchell's Plain were forced to find replacements for the missing buses in their area. This merely accelerated the chain reaction throughout the Cape Town metropolitan area and it was only a matter of time before the replacement, replacement bus service in Simonstown once again needed replacement. The council realised that its only option was to clear the tracks again to get replacement, replacement trains running to back up the replacement, replacement buses. Confessed City transport manager Elwyn Phantom, 'We have a lot to learn about the most efficient ways to manage replacement services.' He declined to answer questions about replacement, replacement services. To glean more information about the problem, a team of transport specialists is visiting England this week to study the problems at Southern Rail, which has the worst track record of all the rail services in the country and has made widespread use of replacement and replacement, replacement bus and train services. The team got off to a bad start when the SAA flight to London was delayed because a replacement Airbus had to be brought in from Johannesburg because the original Airbus was u/s.

Manly man made miserable at birthday bash

Hod Mancunin of Manly Beach was devastated during his birthday celebrations this week when his friends and family segued into 'Why was he born so beautiful, why was he born at all....?' Says Hod: 'Everything was going so well as they all sang Happy Birthday to me and ended with 3 hip-hoorays. It was just what I wanted to hear after a tough week. A warm glow was creeping over me and I felt such a surge of love and kinship with everyone.' Then came the refrain, asking about why he was born. Really?! To add insult to injury it carried on with 'He's no bloody use to anyone, he's no bloody use at all!' For one thing, Hod was put out by the use of a swear word (bloody) which he felt was totally uncalled for under the circumstances. 'We're not talking about bloody, as in blood on the battlefield here,' avers Hod. 'This is just plain old bad language for the sake of it.' But once started, there was no stopping the flow, despite the look of horror and hurt writ all over the birthday man's face. On they went with 'Here's to Ho-od he's so blue, he's a drunkard through and through. He's a bastard so they say, tried to get to heaven but he went the other way!' In parsing this travesty Hod made the following valid points: 'Firstly, I wasn't blue. On the contrary, I had been very happy, enjoying the closeness of the dearest people in my life. Secondly, I'm definitely not a drunkard, any ways up, through and through or otherwise. Thirdly, I was certainly not born out of wedlock and finally, I've never tried to go to heaven. I've come to believe that attempting to go to heaven is self-defeating. You are either going to heaven or you're not. That's if heaven exists at all, which is very moot.' The refrain ended up with 'drink it down, down, one, two, three....' Hod reminded us: 'Well we are talking about high quality sparkling wine here, that I laid in specially for the party, so there's no way I'm just going to pour it down my throat, right?' Hod has moved on now from the awful turn his birthday endured but he knows there's some emotional damage there and next year he'll be inserting a few caveats on his birthday invitation, if he has one at all. He is consoling himself that at least they didn't sing the one about looking and smelling like a monkey.

Vredehoek man overwhelmed with thoughtful and spontaneous birthday greetings from many companies

Pesque Andratief of Vredehoek is raving about the tremendous range of birthday greetings he received on Sunday. 'The avalanche started early on, around 7 am, with a heartfelt tribute from Vodacom International. To think, this was a Sunday morning, early, and some thoughtful person at Vodacom, from somewhere in the world, took the time and trouble to send me a birthday salutation. I mean, I hadn't even woken up yet but there it was as soon as I turned on my phone. So, whoever it was, was thinking that they needed to get the message out before I woke up so that that greeting was the first thing I saw. I tell you, from that point on my day was made!' Pesque never stopped receiving birthday messages, throughout the day. 'Sure, some of my friends and family sent Whatsapps, sms messages or internet cards and I even got a few calls but these didn't really stack up when the likes of Clicks, Old Mutual, Mekor, Facebook and a host of others were messaging me all day with their thoughtful missives. Think of it, these are big companies with zillions of customers, yet they have people dedicated to thinking of their valued clients on these special occasions, Sundays and all.' What Pesque finds especially amazing is that in many cases he can't even remember giving his birthday details to the companies sending messages. 'Somehow they just seem to have discovered my special day and planned a dedicated greeting. I mean, how do these guys even get this information? It's not like there's some Big Brother watching over me who's divulging my personal details or anything. They must have teams of researchers briefed to get out there and dig up personal data so that they can make your day on these memorable occasions.' For one thing, he isn't even a customer of some of the companies that singled him out on his birthday. And he often gives an incorrect birthday date in questionnaires because he doesn't want strangers to know his age. Pesque is now wondering what other kinds of special events these companies may want to share with him between now and his next birthday. Or other companies that he hasn't yet heard from.

Man talks reveals his Glory Days were a long consecutive waste-bin tossing streak

'Glory Days' goes the song .... the ones that pass in the wink of a young girl's eye, according to Bruce (Springsteen, as if you didn't know). The song has left Arnold Nugent of Baltimore wondering about just when his Glory Days really were. "I mean, I was selected the Boy Most Likely to Succeed in my yearbook at high school. But we all know how that turned out. Boy Most Likely to Fail, more likely. It's usually like that: actually it's the dumbest or shyest or most-under-the-radar guys who turn out to be successful. But then again, what is success? Just having a good income, a loving wife and two beautiful kids doesn't necessarily mean you're successful. After all who knows what's really going on behind those freshly painted walls and perfectly tended gardens? Well, no one of course, until some gruesome murder occurs and the wife ends up in the boot of a burning car! Anyway, I digress. As far as my Glory Days are concerned, it's tempting to say it was when I got the top billing in the school book. But because success is hard to measure I've been delving into other periods in my life and, after much agonising, have settled on my own personal Glory Days to be the uninterrupted streak of landing crumpled up paper balls into the waste-bin across the bedroom. It dawned on me that I was just one of those untapped talents that never made the big time. I reckon I could of, if I'd known I possessed such a high level of hand-eye coordination. Look, we can't all be Jens Stoltenberg, that Danish or Norwegian, whatever, dude who is the head honcho of NATO. I mean he just got lucky: his party have just lost the election, so he is out of a job, and suddenly Merkel and Obama get together and call him to offer the post. Is he gonna refuse something like that? No way. So I could of got lucky too but anyway, I know about my waste-bin streak, even if nobody else does. It was crazy man. I just kept on connecting with that bin. It was like 50 or 60 consecutive. There were even a couple that caught the edge but still went in. I couldn't go wrong. How many people on God's Earth can claim such a sequence? Anyway, Glory Days or not, you're not gonna find me in some pub harking back to that time and boring every one with my story, like Bruce in his song."

Top tennis professionals start trend to get their own tennis balls on court

The professional tennis playing fraternity is experiencing a revolution, owing to the wave of anti-ballboy sentiment striking the sport in recent months. It all started in November when Rafael Nadal was going through his normal, interminable, deeply irritating, 19-bounce warm-up routine before each service. His first serve was a let, having hit the net-cord. Although that ball was quickly routed back to him by the network of ballboys, he rejected it and demanded another ball, which was duly bounced to him by a service-line ballboy. His opponent, Roger Federer, who has a much more chilled serving routine, clearly came to a decision at that point. When it was his turn to serve, he asked the service-line ballboys to stand aside and simply drop the balls they were holding. Federer then moved around the back of the court picking up the balls nearest to him, using the technique all players learn at an early age - tapping the ball quickly with the racquet strings so that the ball bounces up. Then he actually picked up one of the balls by lifting it between his racquet head and tennis shoe. Averred Federer, 'I suddenly remembered how fun it is to pick up the balls that way. We always used to do this when we were kids.' Reluctant at first, Nadal joined in the fun after a couple of games. In addition to the bounce and lift techniques, Nadal also used the scoop method where the player quickly scoops the ball up with the side edge of the racquet, keeping the ball glued to the strings, a technique widely used in badminton. Soon both players were improvising, for example, chipping the ball with their tennis shoes against the back wall and collecting it as it bounced back. At the start of the next set, the two players asked for the bottom of the net be lifted a few inches so they could hit the balls along the ground with their racquets to each other from opposite sides of the court. 'There's quite a skill in this,' maintains Federer. 'You aim to get the ball to roll at just the right pace so that it stops as close to your opponent as possible. There's a potential lawn-bowler, or in my case boule-player, deep down in every tennis player.' For Nadal, in particular, this has been a liberating, life-changing experience. Instead of obsessively bouncing the ball, wiping his brow and executing a range of minute routine actions before each point, he now winds up in just a second or two, having himself selected and picked up the balls he wants to play the point with. He's even become less obsessed by which ball to choose. 'Suficiente!' he exploded. 'We change the balls every seven games. How different are they really gonna be?!' The International Federation of Balloys and Ballgirls is in crisis talks as many other players on the circuits, including the Venus sisters, have taken up the trend. So far, another obsessive ball-bouncer and selector, Novak Djokovic, has resisted but sources say that even he is likely to relent soon.