Latest news with #Pavlovian
The Advertiser
01-06-2025
- Entertainment
- The Advertiser
Protein all the rage for (Mr) men and women of a certain age
One Saturday afternoon 40-odd years ago, my sister and I were watching Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory on TV when struck by the genius idea that eating lollies could only enhance the experience. Luckily, the Hill Street shop was just across the road, so we knew could make it there and back by the time Augustus Gloop would be landing in the fudge room. Being the early '80s, however, it was a largely cashless society for kids (the only children who had their own money back then were psychopaths), so in fiscal emergencies such as these we'd have to scrounge around the couch for coins like Tom and Barbara did that time in The Good Life to pay the council rates. If the sofa was a bust, we'd be forced to brave the toxic detritus of the Kingswood ashtray in the hope a 20-cent piece might being lying somewhere at the bottom of the cursed receptacle, fully aware such an endeavour could be as life-limiting as rolling up for work armed with a shovel and alacrity the day after Chernobyl blew up. I recall we were able to raise a little less than $2 - only sufficient to buy about three kilos of jelly babies, teeth, strawberry and creams, bullets, milk bottles, freckles, bananas, pineapples, and pythons - but almost enough to get us to the great glass elevator denouement. Decades of dying tastebuds since then, I've been resigned to thinking the only Pavlovian response TV could get out of me was drooling over home-shopping ads for garden hoses. Turns out I was wrong. Dead wrong. TV is making me hungry again. For the special stuff. TV wants to feed this man meat. And I'm on board. And so is, it feels, everyone else in their 50s trying to, if not turn back time, at least limit those elements which can make ageing any uglier than it necessarily needs to be - such as carbs and bike shorts. But living in this insufferable new age of online enlightenment means we're too clever to just say "meat". These days we must say "protein". Protein, as far as I can tell, is meat and eggs and fish. And maybe mushrooms? I'm not sure. I love mushrooms and would very much like for them to be part of this discussion, but sub judice constraints prevent me from going there (and believe me, I'm desperate to go there). Anyway, watching one of those American barbecue competitions the other day, I noticed all the contestants referred to the ribs, briskets and drumsticks they intended to slow cook for three to four weeks in their locomotive-sized offset smokers as "protein", not "meat". "And far mah proe-teeeyen, ahh'll be cukeen this mowse I done gone hit with mah peek-arp just this mah-nen" (for translation, pretend you're Parker Posey). READ MORE: This protein-washing of the dietary conversation seems to give us a green light to throw off the oppressive chains of colon care and just go nuts (more protein, I believe, but don't understand how). And talking of chains and nuts, I've also been watching Untold: The Liver King on Netflix. While this, ahem, "documentary" peters out quickly, revealing itself to be a bit of a one-trick pony (that one trick being to eat the pony), learning about testicle-chomping internet phenomenon Brian Johnson and his odd Texas family has been mildly entertaining, if not entirely predictable. Despite his hulking and ridiculously shredded physique that screams steroid abuse, Johnson was apparently able to hoodwink millions of followers into believing his extraordinary appearance was down to nothing more than an offal-rich diet and several million daily push-ups. Even though I'm not on the social medias and am coming in late to the Liver King and his "nine ancestral tenets" and associated supplements empire, it was hardly a shock to learn he's been plugging himself with enough human growth hormone to make a bikie blush. What was genuinely shocking, however, was the number of eggs his family eats. They eat almost as many as our lot. Lately, we've gone the full goog, yolk around the clock, and loving it. Eggs are delicious, plentiful (we live in a village lousy with chooks) and can be cooked at least two different ways. It's difficult to stay across the health status of eggs - it seems to change from week to week - but all the science I need to convince me we're on the right track can be found in the Mr. Men TV series where Mr Strong eats, like, a lot of eggs - a regime which enables him to turn an entire barn upside down, fill it with water and use it to extinguish a blazing corn field. Given Mr Strong's suspiciously square jaw, it's hard not to wonder if he isn't dabbling in a little HGH himself, but what is beyond any shadow of a doubt is his gym mate, Mr Noisy, is roid-raging his brogues off when he walks into Wobbletown and terrorises the main street traders. I'D LIKE A LOAF OF BREAD! I'D LIKE A PIECE OF MEAT! Which, as it happens, is precisely the refrain ringing through the light-headed heads of every contestant in this year's Alone Australia over on SBS - a show which puts protein on a pedestal like no other. Meat is the whole point of the Alone franchise; obtaining it equals victory. You can fiddle about with all the fiddlehead ferns you want, but unless you secure protein, you're barely in the game (hibernators should be banned, by the way). The knowing grin on Corinne's lovely blood-smeared face after she gutted that wallaby was worth $250,000 alone. Unless Quentin the evil quoll suffocates the 39-year-old in her sleep, Corinne may win, like Gina Chick, off the back of a single marsupial. But as much as the highlands hunter-gatherer deserves to take the cash (we should also spare a thought for poor old Ben, whose 40 days of Christ-like torture was more harrowing than anything Mel Gibson could subject him to), I - being in the pale, male and stale camp myself - can't help but root for Murray. Yes, 63-year-old "Muzza" is a bogan who swears too much, but he's a brilliant lateral thinker, can literally catch fish in his sleep and has consumed so much eel flesh his gout flared up (he should definitely steer clear of the Liver King's product range). Muzza may not be fashionable, but he gets the job done and surely the sheer frequency of his protein procurement makes him more than worthy to carry the torch? And the tongs. One Saturday afternoon 40-odd years ago, my sister and I were watching Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory on TV when struck by the genius idea that eating lollies could only enhance the experience. Luckily, the Hill Street shop was just across the road, so we knew could make it there and back by the time Augustus Gloop would be landing in the fudge room. Being the early '80s, however, it was a largely cashless society for kids (the only children who had their own money back then were psychopaths), so in fiscal emergencies such as these we'd have to scrounge around the couch for coins like Tom and Barbara did that time in The Good Life to pay the council rates. If the sofa was a bust, we'd be forced to brave the toxic detritus of the Kingswood ashtray in the hope a 20-cent piece might being lying somewhere at the bottom of the cursed receptacle, fully aware such an endeavour could be as life-limiting as rolling up for work armed with a shovel and alacrity the day after Chernobyl blew up. I recall we were able to raise a little less than $2 - only sufficient to buy about three kilos of jelly babies, teeth, strawberry and creams, bullets, milk bottles, freckles, bananas, pineapples, and pythons - but almost enough to get us to the great glass elevator denouement. Decades of dying tastebuds since then, I've been resigned to thinking the only Pavlovian response TV could get out of me was drooling over home-shopping ads for garden hoses. Turns out I was wrong. Dead wrong. TV is making me hungry again. For the special stuff. TV wants to feed this man meat. And I'm on board. And so is, it feels, everyone else in their 50s trying to, if not turn back time, at least limit those elements which can make ageing any uglier than it necessarily needs to be - such as carbs and bike shorts. But living in this insufferable new age of online enlightenment means we're too clever to just say "meat". These days we must say "protein". Protein, as far as I can tell, is meat and eggs and fish. And maybe mushrooms? I'm not sure. I love mushrooms and would very much like for them to be part of this discussion, but sub judice constraints prevent me from going there (and believe me, I'm desperate to go there). Anyway, watching one of those American barbecue competitions the other day, I noticed all the contestants referred to the ribs, briskets and drumsticks they intended to slow cook for three to four weeks in their locomotive-sized offset smokers as "protein", not "meat". "And far mah proe-teeeyen, ahh'll be cukeen this mowse I done gone hit with mah peek-arp just this mah-nen" (for translation, pretend you're Parker Posey). READ MORE: This protein-washing of the dietary conversation seems to give us a green light to throw off the oppressive chains of colon care and just go nuts (more protein, I believe, but don't understand how). And talking of chains and nuts, I've also been watching Untold: The Liver King on Netflix. While this, ahem, "documentary" peters out quickly, revealing itself to be a bit of a one-trick pony (that one trick being to eat the pony), learning about testicle-chomping internet phenomenon Brian Johnson and his odd Texas family has been mildly entertaining, if not entirely predictable. Despite his hulking and ridiculously shredded physique that screams steroid abuse, Johnson was apparently able to hoodwink millions of followers into believing his extraordinary appearance was down to nothing more than an offal-rich diet and several million daily push-ups. Even though I'm not on the social medias and am coming in late to the Liver King and his "nine ancestral tenets" and associated supplements empire, it was hardly a shock to learn he's been plugging himself with enough human growth hormone to make a bikie blush. What was genuinely shocking, however, was the number of eggs his family eats. They eat almost as many as our lot. Lately, we've gone the full goog, yolk around the clock, and loving it. Eggs are delicious, plentiful (we live in a village lousy with chooks) and can be cooked at least two different ways. It's difficult to stay across the health status of eggs - it seems to change from week to week - but all the science I need to convince me we're on the right track can be found in the Mr. Men TV series where Mr Strong eats, like, a lot of eggs - a regime which enables him to turn an entire barn upside down, fill it with water and use it to extinguish a blazing corn field. Given Mr Strong's suspiciously square jaw, it's hard not to wonder if he isn't dabbling in a little HGH himself, but what is beyond any shadow of a doubt is his gym mate, Mr Noisy, is roid-raging his brogues off when he walks into Wobbletown and terrorises the main street traders. I'D LIKE A LOAF OF BREAD! I'D LIKE A PIECE OF MEAT! Which, as it happens, is precisely the refrain ringing through the light-headed heads of every contestant in this year's Alone Australia over on SBS - a show which puts protein on a pedestal like no other. Meat is the whole point of the Alone franchise; obtaining it equals victory. You can fiddle about with all the fiddlehead ferns you want, but unless you secure protein, you're barely in the game (hibernators should be banned, by the way). The knowing grin on Corinne's lovely blood-smeared face after she gutted that wallaby was worth $250,000 alone. Unless Quentin the evil quoll suffocates the 39-year-old in her sleep, Corinne may win, like Gina Chick, off the back of a single marsupial. But as much as the highlands hunter-gatherer deserves to take the cash (we should also spare a thought for poor old Ben, whose 40 days of Christ-like torture was more harrowing than anything Mel Gibson could subject him to), I - being in the pale, male and stale camp myself - can't help but root for Murray. Yes, 63-year-old "Muzza" is a bogan who swears too much, but he's a brilliant lateral thinker, can literally catch fish in his sleep and has consumed so much eel flesh his gout flared up (he should definitely steer clear of the Liver King's product range). Muzza may not be fashionable, but he gets the job done and surely the sheer frequency of his protein procurement makes him more than worthy to carry the torch? And the tongs. One Saturday afternoon 40-odd years ago, my sister and I were watching Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory on TV when struck by the genius idea that eating lollies could only enhance the experience. Luckily, the Hill Street shop was just across the road, so we knew could make it there and back by the time Augustus Gloop would be landing in the fudge room. Being the early '80s, however, it was a largely cashless society for kids (the only children who had their own money back then were psychopaths), so in fiscal emergencies such as these we'd have to scrounge around the couch for coins like Tom and Barbara did that time in The Good Life to pay the council rates. If the sofa was a bust, we'd be forced to brave the toxic detritus of the Kingswood ashtray in the hope a 20-cent piece might being lying somewhere at the bottom of the cursed receptacle, fully aware such an endeavour could be as life-limiting as rolling up for work armed with a shovel and alacrity the day after Chernobyl blew up. I recall we were able to raise a little less than $2 - only sufficient to buy about three kilos of jelly babies, teeth, strawberry and creams, bullets, milk bottles, freckles, bananas, pineapples, and pythons - but almost enough to get us to the great glass elevator denouement. Decades of dying tastebuds since then, I've been resigned to thinking the only Pavlovian response TV could get out of me was drooling over home-shopping ads for garden hoses. Turns out I was wrong. Dead wrong. TV is making me hungry again. For the special stuff. TV wants to feed this man meat. And I'm on board. And so is, it feels, everyone else in their 50s trying to, if not turn back time, at least limit those elements which can make ageing any uglier than it necessarily needs to be - such as carbs and bike shorts. But living in this insufferable new age of online enlightenment means we're too clever to just say "meat". These days we must say "protein". Protein, as far as I can tell, is meat and eggs and fish. And maybe mushrooms? I'm not sure. I love mushrooms and would very much like for them to be part of this discussion, but sub judice constraints prevent me from going there (and believe me, I'm desperate to go there). Anyway, watching one of those American barbecue competitions the other day, I noticed all the contestants referred to the ribs, briskets and drumsticks they intended to slow cook for three to four weeks in their locomotive-sized offset smokers as "protein", not "meat". "And far mah proe-teeeyen, ahh'll be cukeen this mowse I done gone hit with mah peek-arp just this mah-nen" (for translation, pretend you're Parker Posey). READ MORE: This protein-washing of the dietary conversation seems to give us a green light to throw off the oppressive chains of colon care and just go nuts (more protein, I believe, but don't understand how). And talking of chains and nuts, I've also been watching Untold: The Liver King on Netflix. While this, ahem, "documentary" peters out quickly, revealing itself to be a bit of a one-trick pony (that one trick being to eat the pony), learning about testicle-chomping internet phenomenon Brian Johnson and his odd Texas family has been mildly entertaining, if not entirely predictable. Despite his hulking and ridiculously shredded physique that screams steroid abuse, Johnson was apparently able to hoodwink millions of followers into believing his extraordinary appearance was down to nothing more than an offal-rich diet and several million daily push-ups. Even though I'm not on the social medias and am coming in late to the Liver King and his "nine ancestral tenets" and associated supplements empire, it was hardly a shock to learn he's been plugging himself with enough human growth hormone to make a bikie blush. What was genuinely shocking, however, was the number of eggs his family eats. They eat almost as many as our lot. Lately, we've gone the full goog, yolk around the clock, and loving it. Eggs are delicious, plentiful (we live in a village lousy with chooks) and can be cooked at least two different ways. It's difficult to stay across the health status of eggs - it seems to change from week to week - but all the science I need to convince me we're on the right track can be found in the Mr. Men TV series where Mr Strong eats, like, a lot of eggs - a regime which enables him to turn an entire barn upside down, fill it with water and use it to extinguish a blazing corn field. Given Mr Strong's suspiciously square jaw, it's hard not to wonder if he isn't dabbling in a little HGH himself, but what is beyond any shadow of a doubt is his gym mate, Mr Noisy, is roid-raging his brogues off when he walks into Wobbletown and terrorises the main street traders. I'D LIKE A LOAF OF BREAD! I'D LIKE A PIECE OF MEAT! Which, as it happens, is precisely the refrain ringing through the light-headed heads of every contestant in this year's Alone Australia over on SBS - a show which puts protein on a pedestal like no other. Meat is the whole point of the Alone franchise; obtaining it equals victory. You can fiddle about with all the fiddlehead ferns you want, but unless you secure protein, you're barely in the game (hibernators should be banned, by the way). The knowing grin on Corinne's lovely blood-smeared face after she gutted that wallaby was worth $250,000 alone. Unless Quentin the evil quoll suffocates the 39-year-old in her sleep, Corinne may win, like Gina Chick, off the back of a single marsupial. But as much as the highlands hunter-gatherer deserves to take the cash (we should also spare a thought for poor old Ben, whose 40 days of Christ-like torture was more harrowing than anything Mel Gibson could subject him to), I - being in the pale, male and stale camp myself - can't help but root for Murray. Yes, 63-year-old "Muzza" is a bogan who swears too much, but he's a brilliant lateral thinker, can literally catch fish in his sleep and has consumed so much eel flesh his gout flared up (he should definitely steer clear of the Liver King's product range). Muzza may not be fashionable, but he gets the job done and surely the sheer frequency of his protein procurement makes him more than worthy to carry the torch? And the tongs. One Saturday afternoon 40-odd years ago, my sister and I were watching Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory on TV when struck by the genius idea that eating lollies could only enhance the experience. Luckily, the Hill Street shop was just across the road, so we knew could make it there and back by the time Augustus Gloop would be landing in the fudge room. Being the early '80s, however, it was a largely cashless society for kids (the only children who had their own money back then were psychopaths), so in fiscal emergencies such as these we'd have to scrounge around the couch for coins like Tom and Barbara did that time in The Good Life to pay the council rates. If the sofa was a bust, we'd be forced to brave the toxic detritus of the Kingswood ashtray in the hope a 20-cent piece might being lying somewhere at the bottom of the cursed receptacle, fully aware such an endeavour could be as life-limiting as rolling up for work armed with a shovel and alacrity the day after Chernobyl blew up. I recall we were able to raise a little less than $2 - only sufficient to buy about three kilos of jelly babies, teeth, strawberry and creams, bullets, milk bottles, freckles, bananas, pineapples, and pythons - but almost enough to get us to the great glass elevator denouement. Decades of dying tastebuds since then, I've been resigned to thinking the only Pavlovian response TV could get out of me was drooling over home-shopping ads for garden hoses. Turns out I was wrong. Dead wrong. TV is making me hungry again. For the special stuff. TV wants to feed this man meat. And I'm on board. And so is, it feels, everyone else in their 50s trying to, if not turn back time, at least limit those elements which can make ageing any uglier than it necessarily needs to be - such as carbs and bike shorts. But living in this insufferable new age of online enlightenment means we're too clever to just say "meat". These days we must say "protein". Protein, as far as I can tell, is meat and eggs and fish. And maybe mushrooms? I'm not sure. I love mushrooms and would very much like for them to be part of this discussion, but sub judice constraints prevent me from going there (and believe me, I'm desperate to go there). Anyway, watching one of those American barbecue competitions the other day, I noticed all the contestants referred to the ribs, briskets and drumsticks they intended to slow cook for three to four weeks in their locomotive-sized offset smokers as "protein", not "meat". "And far mah proe-teeeyen, ahh'll be cukeen this mowse I done gone hit with mah peek-arp just this mah-nen" (for translation, pretend you're Parker Posey). READ MORE: This protein-washing of the dietary conversation seems to give us a green light to throw off the oppressive chains of colon care and just go nuts (more protein, I believe, but don't understand how). And talking of chains and nuts, I've also been watching Untold: The Liver King on Netflix. While this, ahem, "documentary" peters out quickly, revealing itself to be a bit of a one-trick pony (that one trick being to eat the pony), learning about testicle-chomping internet phenomenon Brian Johnson and his odd Texas family has been mildly entertaining, if not entirely predictable. Despite his hulking and ridiculously shredded physique that screams steroid abuse, Johnson was apparently able to hoodwink millions of followers into believing his extraordinary appearance was down to nothing more than an offal-rich diet and several million daily push-ups. Even though I'm not on the social medias and am coming in late to the Liver King and his "nine ancestral tenets" and associated supplements empire, it was hardly a shock to learn he's been plugging himself with enough human growth hormone to make a bikie blush. What was genuinely shocking, however, was the number of eggs his family eats. They eat almost as many as our lot. Lately, we've gone the full goog, yolk around the clock, and loving it. Eggs are delicious, plentiful (we live in a village lousy with chooks) and can be cooked at least two different ways. It's difficult to stay across the health status of eggs - it seems to change from week to week - but all the science I need to convince me we're on the right track can be found in the Mr. Men TV series where Mr Strong eats, like, a lot of eggs - a regime which enables him to turn an entire barn upside down, fill it with water and use it to extinguish a blazing corn field. Given Mr Strong's suspiciously square jaw, it's hard not to wonder if he isn't dabbling in a little HGH himself, but what is beyond any shadow of a doubt is his gym mate, Mr Noisy, is roid-raging his brogues off when he walks into Wobbletown and terrorises the main street traders. I'D LIKE A LOAF OF BREAD! I'D LIKE A PIECE OF MEAT! Which, as it happens, is precisely the refrain ringing through the light-headed heads of every contestant in this year's Alone Australia over on SBS - a show which puts protein on a pedestal like no other. Meat is the whole point of the Alone franchise; obtaining it equals victory. You can fiddle about with all the fiddlehead ferns you want, but unless you secure protein, you're barely in the game (hibernators should be banned, by the way). The knowing grin on Corinne's lovely blood-smeared face after she gutted that wallaby was worth $250,000 alone. Unless Quentin the evil quoll suffocates the 39-year-old in her sleep, Corinne may win, like Gina Chick, off the back of a single marsupial. But as much as the highlands hunter-gatherer deserves to take the cash (we should also spare a thought for poor old Ben, whose 40 days of Christ-like torture was more harrowing than anything Mel Gibson could subject him to), I - being in the pale, male and stale camp myself - can't help but root for Murray. Yes, 63-year-old "Muzza" is a bogan who swears too much, but he's a brilliant lateral thinker, can literally catch fish in his sleep and has consumed so much eel flesh his gout flared up (he should definitely steer clear of the Liver King's product range). Muzza may not be fashionable, but he gets the job done and surely the sheer frequency of his protein procurement makes him more than worthy to carry the torch? And the tongs.
The Star
25-05-2025
- Entertainment
- The Star
Are certain styles of dressing tied to Donald Trump and his family?
There is a very specific look associated with women who subscribe to the Trump worldview. Pictured here is Lara Trump at the Republican National Convention last year. Photo: The New York Times There is a very specific look associated with women who subscribe to the Trump worldview, one that is sort of a cross between a Fox newscaster and Miss Universe. It generally involves flowing tresses that are at least shoulder length, false eyelashes, plumped-up cheeks and lips, high heels and – a sheath dress. The effect underscores an almost cartoonish femininity that speaks to a relatively old-fashioned gender stereotype; the counterpart to this woman is the square-jawed, besuited guy with a side part. Simply consider the women of the Trump family, who embody the standard: Melania, Ivanka, Lara and Tiffany; as well as Don Jr's new girlfriend, Bettina Anderson; and his former fiancee, Kimberly Guilfoyle. Also Kristi Noem, the homeland security secretary, and former Trump defense lawyer Alina Habba. Indeed, one reason people are so fascinated by Usha Vance is perhaps that, with her willingness to let her hair go gray and her seeming aversion to makeup, she has become the exception that proves the rule. In any case, the Trump-approved lady look has stayed so consistent that it has effectively infiltrated everyone's cerebellum, and we now have an almost Pavlovian reaction to seeing anyone with flowing hair and false eyelashes and lip plumper in a sheath dress. Read more: Want to learn how to dress like Donald Trump? Then you need to watch this film But here's the thing – of all the visual cues on that list, the sheath dress is the least important. The look of Trump world is increasingly about the beauty choices, more than the clothes. You can see this with Attorney General Pam Bondi, who favours pantsuits, and White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt, who seems to vacillate between suits and sheath dresses. No matter what they wear, however, they are never anything but a Trump woman, even before they get to policy. There is actually a name for how they look: 'Mar-a-Lago face', after the Trump golf club in Florida that is home to so many of those sporting the look – which also involves 'conservative girl makeup'. And that is good news for anybody who doesn't want to wear their politics on their sleeve. If you favour a sheath dress but want to avoid its political associations, just think of it as a base layer and consider how you accessorise it. Part of the essential appeal of the sheath dress – the reason it is such a wardrobe basic – is its very simplicity. A sheath dress is easy to wear and can take you from work to cocktails exactly because it is plain enough to … well, fit in many different situations. Read more: 'Of steely, precise armour': Melania Trump's fashion once again under scrutiny First, think about colour. Red, white and blue have become the palette of the current administration, with pink and other classically 'girlie' shades as a fallback. Instead, opt for black or other tones that suggest different associations (goth, minimalist, intellectual, rebel). Keep your hair natural or messy. Keep your makeup minimal and your heels low. Maybe wear boots or even flats or sneakers instead of pumps; if you want height, go blocky or platform rather than stiletto. The point is to look like an individual, complete with idiosyncrasies and attitude, rather than an artificial intelligence-generated member of a crowd. – ©2025 The New York Times Company This article originally appeared in The New York Times.
Daily Maverick
09-05-2025
- Automotive
- Daily Maverick
Hallelujah and praise be, give thanks for the humble N2 and our national highways
Gather round, people and join me in celebration. I wish to sing a paean of praise for… the N2. The nation's coastal artery runs from Cape Town to Hluhluwe through divergent and often glorious landscape before twisting north past Eswatini and (who knew?) ending its 2,214km life deep inland on the eastern highveld at Ermelo. I have no knowledge of anything on the N2 north of King Shaka Airport, but much of the rest in KZN, the Eastern Cape and the Western Cape I have travelled on in recent times and can report very positively. Sanral – the government organisation responsible for our national roads – gets a bad rap, largely because of its poorly thought-through and costly idea to toll the commuter motorways around Johannesburg. But, to my eyes, they are a functional bunch who do a pretty good job. Our major road infrastructure is generally solid and a source of wonder to visitors from the US, Italy, the UK and even Australia, where their equivalent routes are either crumbling or permanently under laborious repair. Sanral's R100-billion budget seems to represent good value by parastatal standards. And before you scream 'what about the potholes?', those tend to be on municipal roads, which are not within Sanral's remit. On the 870km from Cape Town to Makhanda last week, I did not encounter a single piece of unsafe surface. There is work to be done on the patchwork quilt of bitumen east of Swellendam, and some of the markings are perilously scant, but that's not a bad report card, especially given the pressure that the collapse of the rail freight system has put on the roads. There were three sets of road works under way – which is a good thing. Stop/Goes may irritate, but they demonstrate that maintenance is being done. And on that subject, I spotted five verge clearing crews mowing and trimming diligently. And, while I am in a positive mood, allow me to reflect on a few other N2 things. In 20 hours of easy driving, I did not encounter a single piece of the insane overtaking-on-a-blind-rise kind of driving that used to be routine. Are we becoming safer drivers? The polite yellow line passing dance with flashing lights in thanks is done by pretty much everyone. The route was well policed with a regular presence of flashing blue lights, which generate a Pavlovian response of good behaviour, and a couple of roadblocks. And I saw not a single rust bucket, held-together-by-wire-and-duct-tape taxi. They also used to be commonplace. I appreciate that the Taxi Recapitalisation Programme, begun in 2006, was deeply flawed and has many critics. But the government claims 84,000 old taxis have been scrapped at a cost of R6-billion, and I suspect that the overall outcome is positive, given that almost every taxi I see now is in decent condition. The vibrant health of our agriculture was in abundant and constant evidence all along the N2. The extraordinary orchards of Elgin; shiny new seeding machinery in action near Bot Rivier; the immaculate vineyards of Gabrielskloof; vast oceans of pristine netting covering fruit trees in the Overberg; healthy herds of ostriches, cattle and sheep everywhere; barns, fences and warehouses in good condition. And, where traditional farming has proved burdensome, the owners have reinvented themselves into thriving game farm destinations like Amakhala in the Eastern Cape. Or they farm the wind. The massive sets of metal sails at Caledon and Humansdorp represent huge investments. Thinking of investments, there's new housing in abundance beside the N2 in Mossel Bay and Plett, and even whizzing past much-maligned Gqeberha, some serious evidence of fresh economic activity can be spotted. And who remembers a time, not so long ago, when a journey on the N2 was a culinary desert in which a Wimpy coffee was your best option? Not any more. The route is littered with magnificent offerings: the astonishing Peregrine Farm Stall, Houw Hoek, the Ou Meul at Riviersonderend (which was running full throttle at 7am last Friday), Tredici at Swellendam, Ikigai at Riversdale, the venerable Blue Crane at Heidelberg, 'Thyme and Again' at Keurbooms – just some of the superb roadside outlets, along with countless other splendid padstals, all of which seem to have excellent, friendly staff. Please don't take this for granted. My international guests marvel at these places, saying they have nothing remotely like them on their primary routes for the quality of what they offer. Yes, questions abound and the true picture of the journey is complicated. How much are the farmworkers paid? Will Trump, the ANC and Portnet between them shaft our successful farmers? What is life like in the ever-sprawling townships outside Grabouw and Mossel Bay, and in the backstreets of those country towns? What on earth is going on with the forestry land at Knoflokskraal? That 60kmh speed limit on the downhill to Kaaimans before Wilderness is a straight revenue gouger. The sulking, hulking, mothballed Mossgas refinery near Mossel Bay is a monument to the incompetence and corruption of PetroSA. Makhanda is still a mighty municipal mess. And every river you cross raises an alarm on water quality. All valid and true. Our land is both beautiful and ugly. But can we, just for once, don the rose-tinted glasses and celebrate something that works remarkably well? Please give me a hallelujah for the N2. Thank you, brothers and sisters. Amen. DM
New York Times
23-04-2025
- Sport
- New York Times
Why the business of the NFL Draft is booming: MoneyCall
Welcome back to MoneyCall, The Athletic's weekly sports business cheat sheet. Was this forwarded to you? Subscribe here (it's free!) Name-dropped today: Dane Brugler, Roger Goodell, Andre Agassi, Anna Leigh Waters, Cooper Flagg, Lee Corso, Max Verstappen, Shedeur Sanders, Nico Harrison, James Gladstone and more. Let's go: The NFL Draft obviously doesn't have the audience reach of the Super Bowl, but there is a strong case for the draft as the most comprehensive sports event of the year: 'Draft-chella': The NFL has turned the draft into sports' most accessible party. Last year's draft in Detroit drew a record 775,000-plus fans. As the NFL's smallest city, Green Bay won't top that, but the scene will feel like a pro football revival. Advertisement Year-round, full-time draft coverage, including a slew of specialists. (And there's still time to consume at least some of Dane Brugler's 300,000-word draft preview, The Beast.) Multiple high-profile draft-adjacent events in the months leading up, including the league's own scouting combine, various college all-star showcases and on-campus pro days that draw overwhelming fan interest. Well-known quirks: It is impossible not to have your ears perk up in Pavlovian response to the nine-tone sing-song chime signaling 'The pick is in.' And, of course, there are the 'fits and the hats and emotional bro-hugs with commissioner Roger Goodell (even if an increasing number of top players are choosing to spend their draft days at home with their families, which — among other benefits — allows them to showcase endorsement deals that would be verboten if they attended the draft in person). For all the draft's compelling elements, I'll agree with what ESPN executive producer Seth Markman told my colleague Richard Deitsch: The real X-factor of the NFL Draft is that for one unique, once-a-year window, it harnesses and amplifies the most powerful feeling possible for every fan of every franchise, all at once: Hope. Big talkers from the sports business industry: Andre Agassi's pickleball era: The legend's participation in pickleball's U.S. Open next week (with pickleball GOAT Anna Leigh Waters) might be the crossover moment the sport has needed to capture the attention of mainstream spectator sports fans. ESPN's Lee Corso retiring: As my colleague Andrew Marchand noted in this great appreciation, there are just a handful of on-air personalities who come to be intertwined with a network's sports coverage, and Corso was that for ESPN and college football. As Corso's career has wound down, the future of 'College GameDay' has been illuminated: celebrity game predictions (shout-out to ball-knower Timothée Chalamet), full-time nicknamed gambling analysts (first 'The Bear,' now 'Stanford Steve'), the growling gravitas of Nick Saban and — more than anything — the antics of Pat McAfee, who replaces Corso as the show's id. Advertisement The business of Cooper Flagg: Unsurprisingly, he is entering the 2025 NBA Draft. An underrated sub-plot of the Flagg story has been his endorsement deal with New Balance, which he signed ahead of his one season at (Nike-sponsored) Duke. You might have caught him on TV ads during the NCAA Tournament, repping NB but also AT&T ('Bingooooo!'). Expect a surge of marketing activity ahead of his presumed selection as the No. 1 pick in 10 weeks, along with what will surely be more high-profile endorsement deals. 2025 Anonymous NBA Player Poll: All the results are interesting (less than 30 percent of players think analytics are net 'good' for the league), but I was most intrigued by the anonymous reactions to gambling's impact: Nearly half the players polled labeled betting partnerships 'bad' for the NBA, and their responses included some scary anecdotes, including death threats. The rise of the college football GM: As the spring college football transfer portal closes later this week, catch up on the defining trend of the sport in 2025: the rise of GMs to manage rosters, NIL and (if you're Andrew Luck at Stanford or Ron Rivera at rival Cal) input in coach firing. Other current obsessions: NWSL games in MLB stadiums … Bobby Witt Jr.'s daily routine … Max Verstappen's future … Syracuse football coach Fran Brown's candor … Nico Iamaleava's pay cut … If there is a single NFL Draft storyline poised to dominate Thursday night's coverage, it is: Where will QB Shedeur Sanders, son of Deion, be drafted? (I'll set the over/under on camera cutaways to the younger Sanders at 30 if he goes top-three … and 100 if he slips into the 20s. Markman told Deitsch that Sanders' draft night 'could be very parallel to what happened to Aaron Rodgers, what happened to Brady Quinn, what happened to Johnny Manziel.') Advertisement Ahead of that, I asked Scoop City's Jacob Robinson to project three scenarios for Sanders: Highest possible? There are a few slots here, starting with the Browns and Giants at Nos. 2 and 3, respectively, though I doubt they forgo either Travis Hunter or Penn State edge Abdul Carter for Sanders. Lowest possible? If Sanders makes it to the Steelers at 21, the world expects him to be their pick. If even the Steelers pass, I see the Giants, Browns or even Saints moving their early second-round picks and future selections to draft Sanders late in Round 1. With so many teams desperate for a passer, Sanders shouldn't fall out of the first round. Weirdest possible? The Rams hold the 26th pick, they have no succession plan for Matthew Stafford and Sean McVay's offense seems a great fit for Sanders' skill set. Then the media circus accompanying Sanders transforms as he becomes a backup in Los Angeles. Worth checking out: 'The Athletic Football Show' will be live on YouTube — featuring co-hosts Robert Mays and Derrik Klassen, NFL Draft expert Dane Brugler and college football expert Bruce Feldman, among others — on Thursday and Friday nights. Time for a lightning round This guy can't quite stop stepping on rakes. You have to check out what NBA players had to say about Harrison's Luka trade in our annual Anonymous Player Poll. Sample: 'I don't know if 2K would've allowed that trade.' I would argue that the most iconic moment of any NFL Draft comes when each player puts on their new team's hat. My colleague David Betancourt has a great story coming out tomorrow morning all about the draft hat, and I asked him why there is such a fascination: 'The transition from college to pro athlete is never truly official until a prospect has been handed the hat that gives them their official team name and colors, unlocking instant adulation from a built-in fandom.' Advertisement Don't let the youthful mien fool you — the Jaguars' new 34-year-old GM is wise beyond his years. Phenomenal profile from my colleague Jourdan Rodrigue about the new leader calling the shots in Jacksonville. That was the audience for Saturday's NASCAR Xfinity Series race in Rockingham, N.C., airing on The CW. Per SBJ's Adam Stern, all 10 of the races to open the series have topped a million, strong numbers that are flying speeding under the radar this year. The Athletic's newsletter universe expands with Red Light, our brand-new hockey email, powered by my colleagues Sean McIndoe, James Mirtle and our world-class roster of hockey journalists. (It also means MoneyCall is no longer the rookie on the newsletter team — huge thanks for being part of the launch and growth this year!) As with all of The Athletic's newsletters (10 of them!), Red Light is free — subscribe here. (And if you know any NHL fans, please pass along the link.) Edition No. 212 Dan's time: :22 Try the game here! And check back tomorrow for an NFL Draft-themed board. Loved this profile of Hurricanes GM Eric Tulsky, who went from nanotechnologist to front-office analytics guru to head of a Carolina braintrust that is approaching things as innovatively as anyone in sports. Two more reads worth your time: (1) This excellent profile of the partnership between legendary investor Mellody Hobson and former Commanders president Jason Wright, on their approach to investing in women's sports. (2) Glossary of financial terms you'll run into in football (soccer). Indispensable info! Back next Wednesday! This week's challenge: Forward this to four co-workers or friends, and hold a 'reply all' draft of MoneyCall's five main sections. And check out The Athletic's other newsletters, too.
The Guardian
18-04-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
‘It burrows into your bones': how Dancing on My Own became pop's ultimate sad banger
As the flirtation first begins to build between CEO Romy (Nicole Kidman) and her twentysomething intern Samuel (Harris Dickinson) in the recent erotic thriller Babygirl, the two find themselves at opposite ends of a dancefloor. Romy pulls away from her husband and stares – pouting – at Samuel, who embraces another woman, a familiar staccato beat pulsing out around them. 'I'm in the corner, watching you kiss her,' the lyrics narrate. 'I'm right over here, why can't you see me?' It's the perfect needle drop, conveying Romy's desire but also her sense of alienation. Gladly for her, their torrid affair begins nonetheless, and soon the pair are throwing shapes at a sweaty techno rave. The song that plays is, of course, Dancing on My Own by Robyn, from her Body Talk Pt 1 album, a tune so familiar by now that I felt a Pavlovian urge to start caterwauling along in the cinema. Fifteen years on from its original release in April 2010, the track has established itself as pop's great modern 'sad banger', in the vein of classics such as Donna Summer's Last Dance and I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor. Like those tracks it is a song that gets you up and moving, while breaking your heart into several tiny pieces. In the years directly after its release, Dancing on My Own was featured on major TV shows such as Lena Dunham's Girls, and grew in popularity thanks to Calum Scott's stripped back, Love Island-worthy cover, which peaked at No 2 in the UK charts. These days you can hear it in films, on arena tours (Robyn joined Charli xcx on stage to perform the song during the latter's Brat tour last year), and on TV (at Saturday Night Live's 50th anniversary in February, David Byrne and Robyn shared a stage in matching boxy suits for a rendition). It currently ranks at No 20 in Rolling Stone's list of the 500 greatest songs of all time, sandwiched between Billie Holiday's Strange Fruit and Imagine by John Lennon. A lot of songs have staying power but Dancing on My Own stands head and shoulders above so many others from the 2010s (Babygirl would have been a slightly different film had they been dancing to Sexy Bitch by David Guetta). Part of that appeal, says US-based culture podcaster Sam Sanders, is that the song is 'the perfect bait and switch', fusing euphoric music with desolate themes à la disco. 'It's so up-tempo. The percussion is so driving, it sounds like a happy song. And then you hear the lyrics, and it's not happy at all. It's really depressing.' The song's simplicity and repetition, says Sanders, make it 'go down easy … you can memorise it right away. By the end of the song, you're already singing along with the chorus.' Sanders chose Dancing on My Own as his 'American anthem' for a series on NPR back in 2019. As part of his research, he spoke to a musicologist, who informed him that the song's 117 BPM was almost exactly in line with the average human walking speed. '[Robyn] is doing this in a tempo that is pretty close to the human heartbeat,' Sanders explains. 'It's programmed to burrow into your bones, to get into your body and make you move. It's inescapable.' While the song wasn't a smash hit at the time – it didn't dent the US Top 40, and reached No 8 in the UK – it has become a slow-burn word-of-mouth megahit over the months and years since. Last September, it topped a poll of Swedish music industry bods' favourite songs, ahead of tracks by Madonna, Prince and even Abba. Tina Mehrafzoon is a Swedish music journalist who works for P3, the country's equivalent to Radio 1 and the station responsible for that poll. The song comes with a wider context, says Mehrafzoon: it was from the era directly after Robyn's departure from Jive Records to form her own label, Konichiwa (at the outset of her career, she had been marketed as a proto-Britney, working with mega-producers such as Max Martin). By this point, Robyn was no longer looking to 'conform to some of the ideals that were put on a pop star, while still being the ultimate pop star. She was sort of rewriting what you should look like, what you should sound like. She changed the rulebook, just by being.' From Lorde's Melodrama to Taylor Swift's Reputation via xx member Romy's melancholy brand of four-on-the-floor, Charli xcx's direct lyricism, and even Miley Cyrus and Katy Perry lopping their locks into pixie cuts, the charts have seemed impregnated with Robyn's DNA ever since. For her part, Lorde once wrote that Dancing on My Own is 'happy and sad, fiery and independent but vulnerable and small, joyous even when a heart is breaking'. As for the song's popularity, Mehrafzoon thinks it edged ahead of other singles because of the 'credibility' of featuring in US shows such as Girls and Gossip Girl, which have been watched around the world. In Girls, the song plays when Hannah – played by Dunham – finds out that her boyfriend Elijah is gay. The song fits her situation, and his too; Dancing on My Own has become something of a queer anthem in the years since, with Calum Scott telling the BBC in 2020 that he had first fallen in love with the song while figuring out his sexuality. In a list of LGBTQ+ anthems published online by Billboard, the caption for Dancing on My Own (No 16) reads: 'Any gay guy who says he hasn't related to this synthy jam shouldn't be trusted.' There is something about watching from afar – the lack of agency or even visibility – that speaks to the queer experience. 'I mean, who understands the pain of rejection more than queer people?' says Sanders. 'This is all about rejection and dancing through it – that is the queerest reality ever.' He also cites the song's ambiguous pronouns. 'She's playing with gender. It's really subtle, but I think where people get that, we saw it and felt it.' There's also something in the idea of delayed adolescence playing out on a dancefloor; the American academic Jack Halberstam writes that 'queer time is the dark nightclub, the perverse turn away from the narrative coherence of adolescence-early-adulthood-marriage-reproduction-death'. I wondered whether the people who made Dancing on My Own – Robyn, of course, alongside songwriter and producer Patrik Berger, and Niklas Flyckt, who mixed the song – had known they had a hit on their hands at the time. What became clear from speaking to Berger was that this seemingly simple song had, in fact, been a labour of love. 'We took weeks on the lyrics, just to really make sure that we nailed every line,' says Berger, who – as well as working with pop stars such as Robyn, Charli and Taylor Swift, also releases experimental instrumentals as Hög Sjö. 'We would write, digest, and then be like: 'Is this really what it feels like when you're in this situation?' And then we compressed it to have as much impact in every line [as possible].' Berger says his and Robyn's Scandi roots shines through, too. Robyn, he says, has 'a sort of Swedish way of writing lyrics … she's very good at actually saying it as it is. We were talking about the fact that – especially if an American artist is singing about a breakup – most of the time, it's about empowerment: you're worth better and you're strong. We were both like: that's not what it feels like at all! You feel like a loser and an idiot. Maybe that was a little bit new at the time …' Sign up to Inside Saturday The only way to get a look behind the scenes of the Saturday magazine. Sign up to get the inside story from our top writers as well as all the must-read articles and columns, delivered to your inbox every weekend. after newsletter promotion For Flyckt, he says it stood out instantly when Berger first played it to him. 'It's an amazing song, so it was sounding great as a demo; most of it was pretty much there,' he says. 'I tried to add some kind of boldness, just starting with the bass riff and no melody in the beginning.' There's an irony to Dancing on My Own that is hard to avoid. It's a song about being all by yourself, but it's a communal experience. It's a song that Robyn's fans sing back to her on stage when the music cuts; that fans have gathered to sing on train platforms after shows; that choirs and a cappella groups now cover in epic new arrangements. For Berger, feeling like we're alone 'is probably the most uniting thing that we have as humans: it is something that we all understand, but that we don't really talk about all the time.' Being alone together comforts people, he says, but he still hasn't got used to seeing it at scale. 'When [Robyn] performs live and she strips down the music and the whole arena sings … it's mind-boggling to me. I'm like: wow, everybody can relate to this thing. I feel very emotional.' Perhaps it speaks to the current moment. We're more connected than ever but, in many ways, more distant; a piece published by the Atlantic earlier this year called this 'the antisocial century'. Whatever it is about this song that makes people stop what they're doing and sing along, it doesn't seem as if it's going away any time soon. Berger says he hears the track more and more, stuffed into acoustic open-mic sets in bars next to the likes of the Beatles. Robyn has gone on to release another excellent album, Honey, in the intervening years, but there's something about her 'sad banger' that just won't fade away. Says Sanders: 'You could hear the song on the dancefloor in 2050 and folks would be like: 'I want to dance.''
