Compliments of every season
I’m in love with the idea of ordinary folks wantonly dishing out compliments to strangers
If pop culture is anything to go by, 2nd-century Roman emperor, Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, had a fascinating quirk. Apparently, at the peak of his power and popularity he hired a servant to walk behind him, intermittently whispering, “Remember, you’re only a man”.
This was ostensibly his attempt to tamper his ego in the face of adoration and idolatry in Roman society. It was probably because he wasn’t just a scholar and adherent of Stoicism, but an enthusiastic purveyor of that school of philosophical thought.
I’m guessing that Benito Mussolini, Idi Amin, Donald J Trump, our own organic intellectual and “academic lecture” [sic], Cloudy Motsoeneng, and other delusional megalomaniacs missed that history lesson.
Look, in defence of these four peacocks, I’m not completely sold on the virtues of universal modesty, especially since the most common variant of that virtue is the false kind.
You’ve seen it at the Oscars, when the winner of the Academy Award is announced and the actor that 99% of the audience knew was a shoo-in gasps, places her/his hands on their chest in exaggerated, fake surprise, gets on the podium and lies through their teeth about how the other nominees are as deserving. You feel like yelling, “Oh sod off! You gained 30 pounds for that role, learned fluent Khalkha Mongolian, spent four months shooting in -30°C, got bitten by a Gobi bear and lost 50 pounds by the end of production. Of course you knew you’d win”.
But I understand folks’ reluctance to beat their own drums. It’s not an endearing quality to onlookers. If Trump won an Oscar for the inevitable movie based on his life, starring The Donald, titled The Orange Godfather, he’d get on stage and tell the audience: “No one knows more about being a mob boss than I do. Even Marlon
Brando said to me, ‘I see a lot of me in you’. He was right.”
Seven billion, 999-million human beings haven’t achieved enough to earn the privilege to be self-effacing. Those of us who are the also-rans of human existence don’t need a slave to walk behind us telling us we’re only human. Of course we are. Most of us will be forgotten within 30 years of our demise.
It, therefore, behooves the rest of us to help one another play the part of Marcus Aurelius’ servant with our friends, families and total strangers. We need to dish out compliments as wantonly as Argentinian referee Damian Rubino, who in 2011 set the Guinness World Record by issuing every player on the pitch a red card, plus 14 more red cards to the substitutes, the managers and technical staff for a total of 36 in a fifth division league game.
About 12 years ago, I indicated plans to start a movement dishing out compliments to friends, children, family, colleagues and, most importantly, random strangers on the street. I got the inspiration from one of my son’s mates at his Montessori crèche. This five-year-old boy would stand next to the entrance between 7.20am and 7.45am dishing out compliments to parents as they walked in to dump their snot balls on the poor teachers. “I love your hair, ma’am.” “That’s a colourful tie, sir.”“You have lovely eyes, miss.”
For his trouble, he received patronising pats on his head and plenty of hugs and lollipops. I remember arriving with a box of cupcakes decorated with Happy Feet characters and giving him two cupcakes on the spot because he complimented my dog puke-inspired jacket.
We all love an innocuous compliment tossed in our direction, don’t we? Back at the cis, hetero male ranch, you could rock up at a braai dressed like Tyson Beckford, the model, and your friends would throw silly barbs: “Are you getting married later?” Followed by protracted guffaws from the peanut-and-wors gallery.
Fast forward 11 years after coming up with the idea, I came across a delightful character on the internet who goes by the stage name Troy Hawke. This fellow’s claim to fame is that he stands at the entrance of retail shops, race courses and football stadia dishing out elaborate compliments to everyone walking in or out, dressed in a kimono he insists is a smoking jacket.
The first clip I ever watched on YouTube was of him greeting Manchester City players and personnel as they reported for their US tour last year. “You have a fabulously symmetrical face”, “You have clear eyes and a fabulous skin. You’re clearly a master of hydration.” The compliment that broke the internet was him yelling at Erling Halaand, “You’re a tremendous shield of Nordic meat”, in the most restrained Scouse accent.
I’m obviously a rabid fan. This doesn’t mean I’ve let him off the hook for stealing this marvellous idea from me and running with it in ways I never could have. My legal team is on his case, to get my royalties, with the tenacity of the “please call me” fellow against Vodacom.
Jokes aside, I’m in love with the idea of ordinary folks wantonly dishing out compliments to strangers. The other day I told the fellow at the security gate at King Shaka International Airport who checked my boarding pass: “You have the most beautiful, spindly fingers I’ve seen on a man.” He grunted something inaudible and waved me away with a stern “I don’t play for the Pride team” countenance.
But, as I was taking off my watch to walk through the metal detectors, I glanced back and spotted him studying his fingers with a suspiciously smug expression. I was mightily pleased with myself for a job well done. There are few sensations more satisfying than the look on the face of a Checkers cashier after you’ve told her she handles notes better than a Sun City croupier.
I can’t wait for my first encounter with the president. I’ve been working on the perfect line to bowl him over.
The current version is: “You have a fantastic set of pearly whites, your Oxford accent is impeccable and your toes point towards each other when you walk, indicating that you’re a master of your domain not to be trifled with.”
I bet he’d be so impressed he’d toss a cabinet post my way.