From Crowded House to Tin Roof

So your mate rings you up and says a cousin of his is in town from Maritzburg, and he hasn’t been out yet. He hasn’t experienced the great Cape Town night life before. So you’re thinking baby steps here. Take the new kid to Claremont, he gets drunk, and maybe he hooks up with a teenie-bobbie or something. Then he can go home and tell all the stories of the escapade. And of course, We can watch this from a distance while we have a chilled night on the town.

Well, that was the plan anyway. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Little did I know what a bitter/sweet night it would be. It’s all good when you meet a women and start collecting phone numbers (I got only two), but when one of them shows 3 IOI’s you’re thinking; “Rad man, I got this, I got this.” Then after she buys you a few tequilas and you respond in kind with the equal amount, you’re thinking there’s a line you have to draw. Because quite frankly, in my experience, white girls are a different kind of crazy. So you get the phone number, promise to call sometime, and you’re thinking that’s goodnight. It wasn’t to be. We had too much vodka and passion fruit (what do you expect when it’s going at ZAR5 a pop?) and eventually went home after some gallivanting around Claremont. JP's cousin didn't get any, but he had the consolation of getting rat-faced.

The result was I’ve played two rugby games in a row hungover. I think I’m getting the hang of it though. I got a surprise when I got a call from the girl from last night (I'll keep her anonymous till further notice). And so I went over to her place to watch a movie. I was so tired, I fell asleep while we were watching Platoon. She wasn't feeling great either after 12 tequilas last night, and she fell asleep as well. When I arose from my slumber, for some reason I am yet to figure out, I decided to high-tail out of there. I had borrowed my mate’s car, so getting home from Plumstead was no hassle. But I did call her the next morning to explain, sort of. She wasn't impressed by my Houdini act.

I’m taking it easy for the next month (got a rabbit’s foot, four-leaved clover, a piece of wood, and a sangoma’s bones for this one), because I’m investing in some form of transportation of my own. Travelling om my M3 is the pits. Not the BMW M3 BTW, the Metro-Rail 3rd Class.

Anticipation

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Friday afternoon. I love Friday afternoons. The anticipation of the weekend. The buzz one feels. By 15h00, it feels as if the weekend has already started. Even if you are expecting a serine weekend, the buzz is still there. Mine isn’t quite serine. Going out tonight for, wait for it, a “quiet one”. Boy, that’s already put the markers on that one.

Around 16h00, you’re counting down the minutes. Panting in anticipation and bouncing off the walls. The shackles are ready to be broken as far as I’m concerned. That first beer is going to go down like a $20.00 ho. It’s 16h45 now, and my computer is still on, hmmmm. Let’s fix that. Got a rugby game tomorrow, so I have to avoid a hangover, which means ciders (girly drinks) for me tonight.

As they say down at the Fat Cactus; "Friday night, is a pub night!"

Hips Don't Lie

Erotic, supple, piquant, lascivious, lithesome, libidinous; or just plain sexy. That is the site I was faced with Friday night when my mate, JP, his Cousin, Gerhard, and I made our entrance into Crimson in Town, to the sultry beats of Rihanna’s SOS.

Never have I seen a human torso maneuvered in such a fashion with my very own eyes. And it was the finest of the female specimen chosen to demonstrate such an artful display, and I found myself thanking whatever gods were responsible for such a blessing on my undeserving being. Had it not been for the lousy camera on my phone, I would have sneaked a picture, as distasteful as that is, or better yet, a video, and kept evidence of the splendor I witnessed. Better yet, I would have taken her home and got my own private show were it not for various forces working incongruously with the program (that was never on the cards actually). But it was not to be. And so I am left with just a memory of God’s finest work shaking what her mama gave her, and that memory will be embedded in my memory. Until the next outing at least. But it’s unlikely I will see such a masterful display of Shakira-esque bootie shaking, hip jarring, ass breaking samba.

I pretty much played wingman the whole night though, and considering I went out with R40, the night was a trip. I still had all my faculties at the end of the night, plus a phone number to boot. Generally, I’m over clubbing, but Friday nights is a two-for-one special at Tin Roof (preferable to Tiger-Tiger as there is no cover charge), and Piet was DJ-ing at Crimson. It was too much to resist.

Could be a quiet one this weekend, as I am moving house, and have a huge deposit to fork out. But I don’t want to curse it again.

The Price of Peace

At last, I got to spend some time at home during the weekend doing what I do best, nothing. But I paid the price for that. I don’t think I was meant to be couped up in a place all day, unless I’m hungover, of course.

Saturday morning I went down to The Fat Cactus to join the locals (I think I can be classified as one too) to watch the Boks versus the Aussies. There was a sizeable crowd as well, so the final score didn’t go down well. I was sitting right next to the till at the bar, and the amount of tequila purchased increased after full-time. I should have joined Damage and had one, but I was supposed to go to the gym after that. And so my day wasn’t the same after the game. It’s strange, because since I got out of school, sporting results have rarely determined my mood.

And so later I went to Sobar with Piet’s brother to a 21^st birthday party, where I made sure I met the host, or party girl. Hung around with some interesting girls I was introduced to at Tiger-Tiger last week. Watch this space! I’d eaten so much before going out that the smell of food made me lazy and gearing to praise the porcelain gods. J.P wasn’t up to it either, and so I was home by 22h30, and asleep before the e-tv midnight special.

And so having consumed a minimum amount of alcohol, and the rain pissing down Cape Town style, I started bouncing off the walls. I started digging around my room for ‘interesting shit’. That’s never a good sign. The telltale of boredom. I found a pair of broken speakers which I was trying to fix when somehow, I blew something on my monitor. Now all it does is make a ticking sound, like a watch. Mine doesn’t look anything like the one in the picture, but I did imagine it like that a few times. But that’s fine, I use the TV for most of the stuff I do. Now if someone knew how to decrease the resolution on Championship Manager, I would appreciate it. The damn thing goes straight into 1024x768 when you open it, which is way too small.
And so I moved to the broken toaster. The thing works, but on African time. I stuck a screw driver in it and tripped the electricity to our flat. After I brought it back up, we discovered the kettle wasn’t working. Luckily we have one spare, or I would have been chased to Alaska by my housemates and thrown into icy water naked. Don't mess with their coffee! I was assigned to the dog-box instead, where I will remain till further notice. I was also given a coloring book to complete. They told me to knit, but that was taking things too far.

Flu'd Out

The weekend was ruled by flu, although there were still a few memorable moments. The flu was bad enough, but then there had to be the added complication of a stomach ache to boot. I can deal with a running nose and a bad cough, but when I couldn’t enjoy my food that was the last straw. As small in stature as I am, I love my food.

Friday was a write-off. I was asleep by 00h30, which is unusual for me even if I’m playing rugby the next day. On Saturday I played rugby against my better thinking, and I threw up before, during and after the match, which we lost 31-5 to some Bolanders near Malmesbury. With all the violence going on in rugby down there I was nervous when some of our boys took defeat quite badly near the end of the game and started playing the man instead of the ball. But credit to Hamlets for keeping their cool. There was an incident in a game on the field adjacent to the one which we were playing on in which a player was paralyzed from the neck down after a head-on collision. Makes me think twice about playing this game.

After that, John Perry made a lovely roast chicken out of a Jamie Oliver cookbook. It was the finest chicken I’ve tasted in ages. The man is talented on stage, in the studio and in the kitchen. Makes one wonder how he remains single. We also spent the night, along with Damage, talking our usual shite and listening to music.

After 6 beers for each of them and about 3 for me (I’m on meds), we made some time to go see our mate Pieter, a.k.a Deepete, D.J at Cool Runnings in Town. The man had the dance floor at his mercy again. The man is seriously talented. Even though he was playing with such a shitty sound system, the crowds didn’t give a damn. Damage got a bit out of hand (somebody bless him with a girlfriend), so we called it a night with a night cap at Stones in Observatory.

the worst thing happened on Sunday afternoon when I went back home. I got there to find I was locked out, and my housemates wouldn’t be back for another 5 hours. And so I went down to the Fat Cactus for a Coke and a smile. I even missed the second half of the World Cup Final as I was asleep by 21h00.

I was supposed to go on a 10km run this weekend, but I haven’t trained for 7 days, so doubt that’s going to happen. I was never much of a road runner anyway. The lads are going to call me fader.

All In The Name Of Fun

They say it’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye. Luckily, no one lost an eye, just a cheap watch. That was the story of the weekend really. Friday night I went to Tiger-Tiger, where I spent the night with mates of a mate, Patrick. They seemed to be on a mission to get themselves and everyone around them drunk. Had I hung around any longer than I did, I would be telling a different story, and feeling worse for it. Luckily I was rescued by my two friends John and Damage. We popped into Tin Roof, not far from Tiger-Tiger, for a drink. I was already smashed, so we went home something past two, which means I woke up Saturday with no ill-effects.

You would have thought; excellent, you’ve had the fun for the weekend, so let’s bottle it up, and have a nice day chilling. So we bought a few beers, went to watch John and his band, High Trailor, playing at the Wynberg Sports Club. Saying John was nervy before the gig is an understatement. Sean, the drummer of the band, contrived to get John drunk because he “performs better drunk”. It was a hell of a spectacle. JP was all over the place, and the crowd of teenagers really enjoyed it. So did I, but I’m not the biggest fan of rock music. I managed to stay the course though. I reiterate, rock music just ain't my thing. A big mate of mine showed up at the gig though, Pieter Joubert, a.k.a DJ Deepete. He has to be one of the best DJ’s in Cape Town. The man rocks! He usually plays at clubs like Pulse and Opium, but he pretty much free lances, and he’s never short of support. He always seems to get the dance floor packed with his jams. You can also find him playing at other hotspots all over Cape Town as well. Saturday he was playing at a club on Long Street named Jo’burg. It’s quite a dodgy spot, but it’s usually a clean party, for the most part. He was only playing from 00h00, so we went club hopping a bit, from a Place called Zucco’s in Central Cape Town, a very larny and expensive lounge, then Pulse and Opium in Greenpoint, before making our way to Jo’burg. I was tanked by the time we went to there, so I don’t remember any of that. I haven’t heard Piet play in a while, so it was a shame. He mixes everything. His favorite is funky house, but he plays all house, hip-hop, rock, old school stuff, anything. His mixing is crazy. And he doesn’t practice either.

woke up Sunday morning with a belter of a hangover. We went to the Kersefontein guest farm, a Bed and Breakfast, where Piet just resigned, on the West Coast. It’s really beautiful out there, and we were treated by the owner, Julian Melck, to a brilliant lunch. Some of the stuff on that plate I can swear to never have heard of. He’s a really genuine person, and he loves all things traditional. He’s a lawyer by profession, and also a farmer, pig-killer, and aviator, according to his business card. He could talk about aviation all day, and we also had a cool dude called Fred, an Air Force pilot, and Piet’s brother, JP, a prospective pilot, at the table. Between the food and drink, there was conversation about everything and anything, ranging from our backgrounds to matters not so serious, like a cat with a Russian name that was on the cover of a glamour magazine, a temperamental cock that was on the cover of another glamour magazine with Minki van der Westhuizen that pecked all the other chickens to death, both living on the farm, the Director of NASA, who works on the farm, and rapist dolphins (what did dolphins ever do to anyone?). The place is quite a popular spot for the film industry, and you can check out the website by clicking on the link. It was a great way to round off the weekend, but I was tired as hell, so by the time I got back home at 21h00, there was one thing on my mind, bed.

This week I have to behave, as I’m playing rugby on Saturday after we had a two week break. Getting back to acceptable fitness levels will be a bitch. But it’s all in the name of fun…