YOU’VE HEARD A FEW MENTIONS of “silly season” in reference to Crop Over, right? Me, too. I was wondering about the comparison with the other “silly season” – you know, whenever elections come around. Over the last week, I’ve seen people drinking from toilets, filled with beer and rum. The mere coloration of the beverages in the toilet bowls kept me sober. Added to this, I had taken an accidental overdose of lactose the night before; and the last thing I wanted to see was a toilet bowl nearby.
This “silly season” thing though…do you get it?
I know it sounds nice and alliterative, but is it perhaps just an excuse to “do bad”? And if election campaigns and Crop Over fall in the same category, what does it say about the former? I know I promised to alleviate rather than create stress with this column, so I won’t provoke any bitterness. I just couldn’t help drawing similarities between the politicians on the platform and the calypsonians at the culmination of Pic-o-de-Crop.
And talking about Pic-o-de-Crop, the highlight of that night for me was the emcee. A mix of academia and wit – a macadamia of high order – Mac Fingall. In spite of the rain, the man had the audience in the palm of his hand. Imagine how challenging it must have been when half the crowd vex about the postponement of the Finals to Saturday; and the other half vex about the rain. Fifty per cent upset with the little man in charge of culture; fifty per cent upset with the Big Man in charge of weather. How do you appease such a multitude? Ah, but for Mac. He definitely has it: the Mac Factor.
On another sweet note, I always enjoy seeing the politicians play mas. Irene, Santia, Stephen – all looking fit and euphoric on Spring Garden. They could be the poster boy or girls for any band advertisements with those physiques. Truth is, neither a minister nor a senator has inspired me to do anything yet; that was, until Monday gone, when I saw those three. I will try my best to lay off the chocolate and Coke and do my utmost to avoid my favourite fried fowl (Lisa Davis, I sorry) at least for August. With these august goals, I may get closer to the Highway instead of my beloved rocky road ice cream.
With regard to the roads though – I know I may sound like a recurring decimal. But truth is, reader, I abhor these pot-holed pathways. (A pot belly, I could tolerate, but potholes? No, man!) A friend complained about the fact that he became a cussing casualty even before he got to the hospital last week. His wife was about to deliver (coincidentally the deliverance almost occurred at the front of Abundant Life Assembly) and the bumpy roads provoked profanities like he’d never heard before. If not for me and the general public, dear Minister, for the sake of those with child and husbands of the expecting, have mercy.
Veoma Ali is an author, actor, broadcaster, advertising exec and, most important, a karaoke lover.
