SA welcomes the Nokia N9.

Marko Ahtisaari

I was recently whisked away to Cape Town for the Nokia N9 launch, hosted by Marko Ahtisaari, head of global design at Nokia. And what a speaker! He pulled me into his presentation – which took place in a beautiful roof-top venue facing Table Mountain – with absolute awe. There’s someone who’s passionate about his trade. The phone is described as a “work-of-art” smartphone, with unique swipe technology and cutting-edge design.

Now, I’m no techy geek. I had to consciously hide my phone – a repertoire from the Ark – whenever someone called or SMSed (the only functions my beloved has) in fear that I’d be found out.  But I managed to negotiate my way around the N9 quite easily when given the chance to play with it, so I redeemed myself to any of the techno journalists who caught a glimpse of my personal museum piece. 

The event began with a beautifully choreographed dance group, who represented the similarities between dance and the ease of the phone. The champagne flowed like the easy conversation, and I had a blast.

The Nokia N9 is being launched in SA in November, and retails for around R6 000.
So, start saving.   Some of the features include:

• 8MP autofocus camera with high performance Carl Zeiss optics 
• Facebook and Twitter
• Bold all-screen design
• Body made of one piece with smooth shapes 
• Free turn-by-turn drive and walk navigation with voice guidance 
• Vivid 3.9” AMOLED screen brings brilliant colours and content right to the surface   

Jo’burg drivers need to keep calm and carry on.

I’m going to have a little rant. Every day for the past two weeks, I’ve encountered angry people driving recklessly on the roads. And it’s not even justified anger; it’s just utter rudeness and irritation. 

Just because I drive a 1992 Toyota Corolla (which I love, btw) does not mean you can drive aggressively up my rear end, flashing lights and flipping the bird, when I’m driving the Speed Limit! Remember that? The little practice that sets the rules for how fast you can drive on the roads, particularly in residential areas? 

It’s all kinds of people who drive like deranged lunatics as well. Old ladies (yes, they are often the worst!); young student boys pumping their bad music while smoking and hanging their skinny arms out the window; arrogant businessmen who think they’re more important than you in their stuffy suits; taxi drivers, oh taxi drivers; and koogals, who are usually too busy trying to SMS and drive, and/or are looking at themselves in their rearview mirror instead of at the road behind them. Oh, and mom drivers in big 4x4s, so harassed by the brats in the back seat that they take their anger out on me and poor Car. Sheesh. 

In Jo’burg there seems to be an unwritten rule that the more expensive your car, the more you can bully those who drive more ‘economical’ ones. There should be a disclaimer on their licenses then, I think. It could say something like [caveman speak], “Me have big car. Me drive like asshole.” 

Just this morning, while driving up Glenhove Road and travelling at the 60km/hour speed limit mind you, a large BMW came screaming up behind me, as if to say, “Go faster! How dare you obey the law and drive the speed limit! Can’t you see my big fancy car is on the road this morning? Move over, or better still, drive up onto the grassy pavement and make way for me and my sense of entitlement!” 

To make matters worse, I actually drove faster. BMW looked as though it was about to ram me right up the rear end then! When impatient BMW finally passed me, only to stop at the red robot at Oxford Road with all the other lesser urchins anyway, I was appalled to see the driver was a well-dressed old woman! The kind you might consider carrying a grocery bag across the street for. Well, I ain’t carrying your grocery bag ever you pompous ponce.

All the brides love Movida!

Last weekend was the pivotal event leading to my sister’s wedding – the Bachelorette Party.

The somewhat tame part of the evening was a success. Sis dressed up in the ‘wedding clothes’ we decorated for her, and answered questions about Future Husband. Every wrong answer got her a shot of tequila. Eish. She had a papier-mâché penis-shaped pin yadda that she happily whacked until all the cheap sweets fell out.

The night got more exciting when we made our way to Movida, who kindly allowed our group free entrance, because CLEO + Movida = Best Friends. But sometimes, it doesn’t matter if you manage to get all the bride’s friends in for free, because you’ll always get the token ungrateful sour grape who can’t appreciate it.

Anyway, I couldn’t believe how many hen nights there were! About 80% of the club consisted of groups of women dressed to the nines, followed by the bride, usually donning a veil, garter, feather boa and/or French maid’s outfit, carrying bachelorette paraphernalia like paddles, wands and male-genitalia balloons. The place is like a hen night sorority.

What makes Movida different from all the other clubs is that there’s actual entertainment. The show for this particular evening was The Full Monty (not really – I’m pretty sure they still had undies on after they ripped off their boxers and stood in front of the blinding light.) Girls can behave in the most undignifying manner when there are half-naked boys in the room, dancing around chairs in the manliest way a person can do that. Something by Tom Jones was playing, but you could hardly hear the music over the rampant screams from the girls in the crowd. “Take it oooooofff!”

Whatever guys there were, brave enough to enter the unknown world of bachelorette mania, probably only came for the pure purpose of trying to pick up the remaining single bridesmaids. But the girl power prevails at Movida, in a ‘one-for-all and all-for-one’ kind of way.

The nine-step pouring ritual.

Stella Artois is launching in South Africa, and yesterday I was invited to a fancy three-course lunch at La Campagnola to celebrate its arrival. But first, a little about the beer. Now, I’m not the world’s greatest beer drinker, but I can force myself to hold down a few when there’s no wine, whiskey, vodka and/or tequila around.

So, I was pleasantly surprised at its delicious taste when I was offered a massive draught to sample on my arrival. Uh-oh, this could be a long lunch …

And it was. Mussels for starters, fillet for mains and crème brulée for dessert. And remarkably, I wasn’t too full, even after tipping back that draught. During dessert, some of the guests went up to the bar to take part in the nine-step pouring ritual (see pic below). It’s quite a feat if you can do it properly. Stella Artois takes it so seriously there’s a global competition experienced bartenders get to enter, the winner of which travels the world, showing off his (or her, you never know) beer-pouring skills.

Kuli Roberts attempted the ritual first, with pretty good results. She kept saying, “Now, let’s get a blonde to go next!” Oh God. Don’t make eye contact. I suddenly became extremely interested in my crème brulée, sinking lower into my chair. I’m particularly camera shy, and the camera lady was prolific with her equipment, shoving it in people’s faces. Luckily, my disappearing act was successful.

The afternoon was pure fun and entertainment. I can’t wait to go to La Campagnola again, and my drink of choice to fit in with the boys during the World Cup is definitely Stella Artois.  

Embracing Cuban beats at salsa class.

BF and I went for our first salsa lesson last night at the Dance Junxion in Rosebank. I think this is going to be harder than I thought.

I’m not one of those rhythmic clowns who can’t hear a beat, let alone do three steps on the spot with a clap in between. In fact, I’ve danced for the better part of my life – albeit partner dancing wasn’t my area of expertise. Contemporary dancing was, and I still show off my moves to BF after a few glasses of wine in the kitchen on a Friday night. There ’aint nothing like Dutch courage to get your flirt on.

Freedom, our instructor for the next eight weeks, introduced us to the class – hands-free mic in place and bright smile on face. And if we continue at the pace he relentlessly pushed us through, we’ll all be professionals in two months’ time.

It was very confusing in the beginning, especially for BF, muttering, “This oak can’t count.” Freedom: “One and five. One and five. Now, one, two, three; five and seven. One, two, three; five and seven.” What?!

But when a few other dimwits looked confused, Freedom explained that he could in fact count, and that “four” was a pause and “and” was six. “Ooooh!” the cattle of a class answered.  

Note for next time: wear smaller heels. I felt like my calves were screaming at the end of the class – “Take those shoes off! We’re on fire!”

Hopefully next time I’ll pick the moves up faster and some of the other guys I have to dance with brush their teeth.