All that Glitters

Free stuff is mostly awesome. Free concert tickets are awesome. Free property mail is a pain. Free cheese samples at Spar are awesome. Free Spam mail is infuriating. Free holidays to Zanzibar are awesome. Free T-shirts at a bar in Minneapolis for drinking 8 tequila shots in a row are sneaky. This is the way I see anything free; awesome or suspicious, but mostly awesome.

As the world gets more influenced by marketing and advertising gimmicks, everything starts to appear free. Like credit cards. Banks are always sending out letters saying that you’ve qualified for a free credit card. There’s normally a picture of someone in a Jacuzzi near the ocean, sipping pink liquid out of a coconut, captioned: The new Heavy Weight Gold Card takes you places. There’s bugger all free about getting something you’ll spend the next forty years paying for.

I can’t help looking back to a time when there were only two free items on my mind. Before there were any of the above mentioned freebies, there was Simba Surprise and Reggie’s Toy Rush. One meant shame in its rawest form, the other glory unparalleled.The thought of being Simba Surprised terrified me. I could picture being in school assembly, minding my own business, when the pretty blonde presenter would burst through the stage door and scream, “Surprise!”

“Holy Snakes, Not me!” I’d think.
She’d walk through the hall, scouring a sea of little faces saying “Is Clayton Truscott here, Clayton Truscott, where are you little monkey?” Simba is still standing in the doorway clapping his hands and jumping around, knocking over empty seats foolishly.
There would be no escaping the inevitable. She’d find me; the whole hall would be pointing and giggling at my grave misfortune.

I’m still not sure if I would have blasted my way through an exit, screaming “Enough, you crazy bastard! I’m too old for this!” Or maybe Simba and the presenter would have won me over. I could have ended up on stage, claimed my prizes with a smile, hugged the 7 foot lion and roared into the microphone. Either way, the whole thing would be on KTV for everyone in South Africa to laugh at. Social suicide at 13 years old.

On the other hand there was Reggie’s Toy Rush. The Toy Rush was to kids what the lottery is to adults. It was the only program not animated or presented by a purple dinosaur that had lighties screaming at the TV like it was the Currie Cup Finals. Two children were selected each week to mission through a Reggie’s Store and fill a trolley with anything they wanted for 30 seconds. You could see the sheer sense of bewildered excitement in the face of whoever was on the Toy Rush.

I’d spit snakes at the useless one’s that wasted time in the puzzle section of the store. It was unfair to the countless children watching for a contestant to walk away with humble takings. It was the kind of thing you should research a bit first. Think hard about what you want and make sure you know where to find it. Had I been selected, I would have drawn a map and planned a route. I acctually did do a few practice rounds in the Reggie’s at Greenacres; just to get a feel for the territory should I ever be selected. It was timeless, too. Through the ages my preference changed. I wanted everything from Ninja Turtles figurines to Lego, He-man, GI Joes, Thunder Cats, Bionic 6 and Brave Star. I coveted all.

It’s strange that I never entered Simba Surprise, but feared being on the show like it was made to embarrass me alone. I know that sounds self-absorbed and narcissistic, but I probably was. Then again, I entered the Reggie’s Toy Rush furiously and never heard a peep from them. I’m not sure what to make of that?

Anyways, Let's have something to do with surfing. The waves bumped up a bit yesterday. I saw Seal Point in the afternoon and it looked pretty decent. Today that bump in the swell is still around, but the wind is blowing it socks off. The South Westerly has come out with its teeth showing, which will probably flatten it out again. With the cold front moving in this afternoon, we might get something for the weekend.