Aside from capitalising on every possible cliche about Africa, the movie trotted out a celebration of white wimpy maleness, festooned with golf, cricket and gardening. And, of course, the obligatory pre-teen computer nerd. It was all rather depressing, she told Gramsci.
But even more depressing was the drive home, past the lampposts trimmed in fading election posters with photographs so unflattering they threaten to put caricaturists out of business. The only engaging photo being that of Powerhouse Pat, with her twinkly smile and her catchy slogan. What a pity then, the Cow grumbled to Gramsci, that she had to undermine it by draping herself around that Wimpy White Guy on those other posters.
Carnivorous Cow wasn't sure who the wimpy white guy was supposed to appeal to. Certainly not the tough cookie women who revered PP as a role model. Nor the men of all descriptions who were attracted by her "feistiness". And not even by the excuse-me-for-breathing women who saw her as a threat - now more than ever, that she was moving in on wimpy white guy territory. The Cow found it all very confusing.
Still, she was relieved that the elections would all be over soon, and the politicians could creep back under the rocks they hid under for the intervening five year stretches. And the _real_ men could emerge once more.