On a flight from Johannesburg to Capetown last Thursday morning, I was reminded of those long-haul flights between European cities and sub-Saharan capital cities. As the sun rises from the front of the plane, the view forward is divine. It reminded me of an old saying that standing in the shadow does not mean that one is obscured from the view; learn to appreciate the alternate vision instead. How does this relate on to my ongoing tribulations with technology and rugby? Well keep on reading…

Being an avowed techie, I have never felt as let down by technology as I was the previous day (Wednesday). Most large companies today have a facility that allows their employees to access the corporate network remotely. This is not because of a work-life-balance policy but so that poor employees have no excuse for not reading the bosses’ urgent e-mail on Saturday evening after an inspiring round of golf and drinks. Thanks to a company called RIM and their shiny Blackberries, we cannot escape the thug who parks closest to the elevator, has his own dedicated printer, lavatory and occupies the corner office.

Remote access methodology varies and woe unto you if the company’s ICT policies are set by a ‘committee’ of ex-KGB operatives working from a dungeon in Bratislava. Yes, deep central Europe and roughly 18 hours away on plane and six time zones apart depending on who you speak to. Worse still if the policy is overseen by locals aping cold war strategies gleaned from social forums. Basically, their role is to ‘bulletproof’ the network from external threats, negotiate so-called global agreements with vendors as well as unmasking employees who love viewing tackles, racks or bottoms during working hours (depending on your orientation… of course). You have been warned,

Hackers, fraudsters and industrial espionage activities have resulted in an overly complicated labyrinth of firewalls, gateways and trick questions just to download a message from the internal communications department informing you that the salary advances (you had become so accustomed to) are no longer going to be entertained. Last time I checked, I only entered 3 variables to access my bank account and transact online. However, I am required to key in nine variables to access my client’s corporate intranet. By the way, the parameters change abruptly as is company policy to keep everyone alert. Let me hasten to add that change and level of complexity are directly proportional to the amount and flavour of Vodka, shooters and smoke that Vladimir, Olga, Ivanovich or their local wannabes have partaken.

On Wednesday evening, the entire authentication system was on the blink and I desperately needed to log in remotely and print my e-ticket. My flight was the following day at 6am and not even the office assistant could send the simple e-ticket document to my private e-mail address. Why? It is against company policy to forward office mail to private addresses. Therefore, I had to make a thirty kilometre detour at three-thirty in the morning to print my e-ticket before proceeding to the airport for my flight. The policymakers must have been high on glue and nail polish this time around. Why did I not go and print earlier? Well, being a roving consultant, I am of no fixed abode and as Murphy would have it, I had been plying my trade at some mining outfit somewhere in the North West province. Whoever said that technology makes our lives easier should be captured and asked to personally clean portable toilets at Loftus after a Bulls game. After that, he/she would be fed on a diet of prawn crusts and used cooking oil for a week. Then stabbed to death with a nail gun filled with used wooden toothpicks.

As we say; every cloud has a silver lining and so did mine, Things only got better because, I did get to print my ticket albeit angry, bleary eyed and made a bee-line for the airport. I made it. A well mannered young lady even volunteered to ‘help’ me check in using one of those self-service kiosks. Yes, you guessed it; I played dumb. Hey! I was a dude in distress and here was a damsel willing to assist. I thanked her and proceeded to the x-ray machine wondering whether they would find my portable set of an ultra slim pocket knife, scissors and nail file hidden in the battery compartment of my notebook. Once again, they did not.

I read somewhere that our national rugby coach needs a haircut (with a number 4) in the region between his upper lip and his nose. It is inadvertently translating whatever comes out of his mouth into some comical comment. Is that true? The writer was of the opinion that we may be able to hear him clearly and stop ‘misquoting’ the poor chap. Well, I don’t know because I have never nurtured a moustache.