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Parentals In The Mother City: Part I

2011-12-12T12:32:00.004+02:00

I have got to admit how nervous I was before the parents arrived in Cape Town. You see, you never know what you’re going to get with those two. I was afraid of being stuck with a couple of old farts who are grumpy, and moan about everything, tell me how useless I am and what a big disappointment I am. It was a pleasant surprise to get a jovial couple who took to the caprice nature of their surroundings like a couple of European tourists.

I wasn’t surprised they were late, taking me back to my boarding school days at the end of the term, when I would be so eager to get out of the hostel and home to some DSTV I would be ready with my bags in the parking lot straight after school, only to sit there for hours watching the other kids spirited away by their progenitors, only for my parentals to rock up with a car full of Fruit & Veg groceries. At least I know where I get my resplendent punctuality from (where’s that sarcasm font when you need it?!).

My dad had organised tickets to the President’s suite for the 1-Day Cup Final between Cobras and Warriors on Friday, a game that was scheduled to start at 3pm. I eventually hooked up with them at 4pm at Newlands, after a long and uncomfortable wait at the Vineyard Hotel reception. I had forgotten my dad’s “celebrity” status amongst the cricketing fraternity, and it took us 20 minutes to get to our seats.

The Warriors innings seemed to fly by fairly quickly, most probably because we missed the first 25 overs of it. The Barcadi and coke also helped, which of course, like my ciggy breaks, had to be masked by breath mints. Good job those were provided at the bar.

Motherhood was in great spirits, at her sarcastic best. At one stage, she had the whole suite in stitches when a Makhaya Ntini obviously dipping into the KFC during breaks while filming the ad for the fast food chain came out to bat, looking rather burly and a couple of sizes too big for his Warriors outfit. My mother spared no punches, although she said whenever he came out to bat, he was guaranteed his one boundary before perishing. And so it proved true when he swatted an attempted bouncer straight over the bowlers head. The box was jubilant, and the round of applause went to my mother instead of Ntini!

The Cobras innings was something of a bore, and my dad took the opportunity to regale us with tales of his Fort Hare days and Xhosa poetry. Luckily I have long learnt the art of pretending to listen while my mind is elsewhere, and bless motherhood’s occasional interruptions.

After the game, I badly needed to enjoy a proper drink and fag without looking over my shoulder, so I stopped over at Stones after parting ways with the parentals at the Vineyard. I made my way to Enerchi Emporium after my drink, to Whitney’s birthday/wedding party I was supposed to be at had it not been for the cricket. By the time I got there, I was tired and Jace was desperately trying to revive the party, which was pretty much akin to flogging a dead horse.

Inexplicably, I had to accompany my dad to the airport, in a separate car, on Saturday morning. Had I been feeling better, no doubt I would have been all for it, but the red wine at Enerchi was causing all sorts of havoc in my head. I managed to maintain a sunny disposition nonetheless, especially considering the impromptu request by motherhood to visit Access Park after we had dropped off fatherhood. She clearly does not know what the place is like on a Saturday, or my loathing of shopping malls or any place with close grouping of stores. I spent the rest of the afternoon in and out of consciousness, save for the two hours we spent at Spur, which I spent watching (read blankly staring at) the 7s game between Canada and USA while motherhood and her sisters caught up.

Yesterday could not have been a more chilled day. I spent the morning at the airport with my mother at Mugg & Bean, where she was awfully chatty. I spent the rest of the afternoon in holiday mode as Conrid, his sister and brother-in-law and I braai’d. It was the relaxed end I needed to the weekend, and we ended it watching The Tourist.

There’s plenty happening this week. Our End-of-Year lunch on Wednesday, which won’t be much to write home about apart from half a day out of the office, and a long weekend. We have plans to hit La Med on Saturday, but I plan to spend Friday in fully-relaxed mode. Perhaps do some reflection and jot down some plans for next year.

That said, I expect none of that to happen and spend the weekend going from one hangover to the next!

Here We Go Again! Let's Dance!

2011-11-11T12:53:00.008+02:00

This has been an absolutely absorbing week if you've been in South Africa. Especially the last two days, what with the ANC finally deciding enough is enough with Julius "Juju" Malema, and the unforgettable, inexplicable, and historical cricket Test match that just concluded at Newlands.

At the forefront of all that, on a personal level, has been the "Let's Dance!" Competition we're dancing at. We won't be competing, but doing a piece inbetween the competing dances. We were supposed to do 3 dances, but after the original novelty had worn off and reality put a firm boot in, it was decided to cut it down to one. The one we know the least. Typical.

We've been at panic stations the whole week, and the shit will literally hit the fan at 6pm when we arrive at the venue. Literally. The nerves really activate the bowels to uncontrollable levels for some, and the amount of liquids lost due to the constant need to urinate must creep close to body weight (at least my measly body weight).

You would think the more we dance the better we would be at handling these nerves, especially considering we did City of Dance, as close to a professional show as I have ever come. The truth is, we have gotten better at dealing with those demons. No longer do we worry about fucking up because of nerves. We put it aside and perform, and we enjoy our performance. From that enjoyment, comes the character that has always been missing and is so essential on stage.

But it is before we hit the stage that nerves become a problem. Luckily, we are something of a tight-knit group, so we always make sure the nerves do not become debilitating for any of the dancers. We all deal with our nerves in pretty much the same way. It comes in stages. There's the original nervous energy, calmed down with a cigarette (a surprising amount of dancers smoke), accompanied with continuous chatter and nervous laughter. Then comes the make-up, and reality hits that this is about to happen, and the chatter dies down, and we start to wonder if we can do this. We start going through the dances in our heads, a big mistake, and panic ensues should a step be forgotten. Then comes the silence, when we are properly kakking ourselves, sitting in corners and wondering what the fuck we were thinking. Then 10 minutes or so before the dance begins, come the bathroom trips, which can be difficult according to how elaborate the costume is, accompanied by farts on the way.

The worst is standing in the wings, grief stricken with fear, sweating profusely from balls to armpits, and all you want to do is run away and abandon ship. But then you pull your shit together, and its showtime. And everything beforehand is all forgotten, and the focus is wherever you choose your focal point to be.

Afterwards, you're so gripped by excitement, you want to do it all again! Forgetting how excruciating it all was before. During City of Dance, it was four nights of going through all that, 9 dances each night, in front of 60+ people. Another night, and I would have died of some cardiac malfunction it was so stressful. I certainly lost a number of years of my life, bringing down my life expectancy from the expected and intended 60.

Tonight, it's just one dance, but an expected crowd of 300! It certainly doesn't make it any less stressful. In the case of City of Dance, apart from the Intro, we had rehearsed everything to death (not that it made us feel any more prepared). This time around, we've had to whip a dance together in 3 weeks, had an awful practice run at a social, and a handful of rehearsals. Masochists, we are.

Hopefully this time tomorrow, I'll be crowing about how great it was. Otherwise, I will have sufficiently drowned my sorrows.

A Hilarious Account of a Colonoscopy

2011-11-10T12:37:00.002+02:00

ABOUT THE WRITER: Dave Barry is a Pulitzer Prize-winning humor columnist for the Miami Herald.

Colonoscopy Journal:

I called my friend Andy Sable, a gastroenterologist, to make an appointment for a colonoscopy.

A few days later, in his office, Andy showed me a color diagram of the colon, a lengthy organ that appears to go all over the place, at one point passing briefly through Minneapolis.

Then Andy explained the colonoscopy procedure to me in a thorough, reassuring and patient manner.

I nodded thoughtfully, but I didn't really hear anything he said, because my brain was shrieking, 'HE'S GOING TO STICK A TUBE 17,000 FEET UP YOUR BEHIND!'

I left Andy's office with some written instructions, and a prescription for a product called 'MoviPrep,' which comes in a box large enough to hold a microwave oven. I will discuss MoviPrep in detail later; for now suffice it to say that we must never allow it to fall into the hands of America 's enemies...

I spent the next several days productively sitting around being nervous.

Then, on the day before my colonoscopy, I began my preparation. In accordance with my instructions, I didn't eat any solid food that day; all I had was chicken broth, which is basically water, only with less flavor.

Then, in the evening, I took the MoviPrep. You mix two packets of powder together in a one-liter plastic jug, then you fill it with lukewarm water. (For those unfamiliar with the metric system, a liter is about 32 gallons). Then you have to drink the whole jug. This takes about an hour, because MoviPrep tastes - and here I am being kind - like a mixture of goat spit and urinal cleanser, with just a hint of lemon.

The instructions for MoviPrep, clearly written by somebody with a great sense of humor, state that after you drink it, 'a loose, watery bowel movement may result.'

This is kind of like saying that after you jump off your roof, you may experience contact with the ground.

MoviPrep is a nuclear laxative. I don't want to be too graphic, here, but, have you ever seen a space-shuttle launch? This is pretty much the MoviPrep experience, with you as the shuttle. There are times when you wish the commode had a seat belt. You spend several hours pretty much confined to the bathroom, spurting violently. You eliminate everything. And then, when you figure you must be totally empty, you have to drink another liter of MoviPrep, at which point, as far as I can tell, your bowels travel into the future and start eliminating food that you have not even eaten yet.

After an action-packed evening, I finally got to sleep.

The next morning my wife drove me to the clinic. I was very nervous. Not only was I worried about the procedure, but I had been experiencing occasional return bouts of MoviPrep spurts. I was thinking, 'What if I spurt on Andy?' How do you apologize to a friend for something like that? Flowers would not be enough.

At the clinic I had to sign many forms acknowledging that I understood and totally agreed with whatever the heck the forms said. Then they led me to a room full of other colonoscopy people, where I went inside a little curtained space and took off my clothes and put on one of those hospital garments designed by sadist perverts, the kind that, when you put it on, makes you feel even more naked than when you are actually naked..

Then a nurse named Eddie put a little needle in a vein in my left hand. Ordinarily I would have fainted, but Eddie was very good, and I was already lying down. Eddie also told me that some people put vodka in their MoviPrep.

At first I was ticked off that I hadn't thought of this, but then I pondered what would happen if you got yourself too tipsy to make it to the bathroom, so you were staggering around in full Fire Hose Mode. You would have no choice but to burn your house.

When everything was ready, Eddie wheeled me into the procedure room, where Andy was waiting with a nurse and an anesthesiologist. I did not see the 17,000-foot tube, but I knew Andy had it hidden around there somewhere. I was seriously nervous at this point.

Andy had me roll over on my left side, and the anesthesiologist began hooking something up to the needle in my hand.

There was music playing in the room, and I realized that the song was 'Dancing Queen' by ABBA. I remarked to Andy that, of all the songs that could be playing during this particular procedure, 'Dancing Queen' had to be the least appropriate.

'You want me to turn it up?' said Andy, from somewhere behind me.

'Ha ha,' I said. And then it was time, the moment I had been dreading for more than a decade. If you are squeamish, prepare yourself, because I am going to tell you, in explicit detail, exactly what it was like.

I have no idea. Really. I slept through it. One moment, ABBA was yelling 'Dancing Queen, feel the beat of the tambourine,' and the next moment, I was back in the other room, waking up in a very mellow mood.

Andy was looking down at me and asking me how I felt. I felt excellent. I felt even more excellent when Andy told me that It was all over, and that my colon had passed with flying colors. I have never been prouder of an internal organ.

On the subject of Colonoscopies...
Colonoscopies are no joke, but these comments during the exam were quite humorous... A physician claimed that the following are actual comments made by his patients (predominately male) while he was performing their colonoscopies:

1. 'Take it easy Doc. You’re boldly going where no man has gone before.'

2. 'Find Amelia Earhart yet?'

3. 'Can you hear me NOW?'

4. 'Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?'

5. 'You know, in Arkansas , we're now legally married.'

6. 'Any sign of the trapped miners, Chief?'

7. 'You put your left hand in, you take your left hand out...'

8. 'Hey! Now I know how a Muppet feels!'

9. 'If your hand doesn't fit, you must quit!'

10. 'Hey Doc, let me know if you find my dignity.'

11. 'You used to be an executive at Enron, didn't you?'

12. 'God, now I know why I am not gay.'

And the best one of all:
13. 'Could you write a note for my wife saying that my head is not up there?'

keep on keepin' up...

2011-07-20T12:46:00.003+02:00

The following week and a half promises to be an emotional one. People coming and going from all corners, everything moving a bit too fast methinks. At a time when I’m looking to slow everything down in order to take stock; not ideal. But what can I do? I have to keep up, if not for my sake...

It feels like I’ve been swimming against the tide the whole year, perhaps it is time to see where the tide takes me. Because I’m exhausted! I don’t like to admit defeat, but persistence can very much be the last refuge of the unimaginative.

A little esoteric, I know.

After a few weeks of waiting for someone to send me a Google+ invite, I managed to get my hands on a couple of them. After initially struggling to get it up and running, I left it for another day. I started thinking maybe I shouldn’t bother.

I don’t even check my Facebook profile anymore, and I’m not tempted to either. Twitter is enough admin for my life. Google+ is just an imitation of Facebook (or the Facebook “killer” if some are to be believed), so I don’t see the need to go through all that hassle I did when I got on Facebook. It’s a pain in the ass. I like my ass pain-free.

If you have Google+ invites, keep them to yourselves. I’m not even curious this time. It was curiosity that lured me to Facebook, and then its claws hooked me. I would love to just delete my account, but there’s a lot invested on that account. Because people don’t know how to use e-mail anymore even though they have Blackberrys (Blackberries?) and such.

You should all be ashamed.

Cape Town winter blues...

2011-06-29T11:26:00.012+02:00

It's that miserable time of the year again, winter! As if the Cape Town bitter cold weren't enough, we have to deal with the wind and incessant rain. How one handles this weather is totally dependent on your upbringing. For instance, a black person from the Eastern Cape would be more inclined to huddle under a heavy blanket, with a gas heater for backup. A white boy from the Free State will be seen gallivanting the streets at night in nothing but jeans and a smart shirt.

If it weren't for the bloody Zulus in KZN, I would have been in Durban faster than greased lightening the moment Cape Town temperatures dropped under 18° C, basking in mid-twenty weather catching sardines. Instead the only time I dare venture outside is a quick nip to satisfy my nicotine cravings, usually under doorways, or surreptitious puffs out a window when the elements simply defeat bravado.

Of course the other obvious, well documented way to survive the winter is a warm body to cuddle up to. There are added benefits the body provides but cuddling (they usually lead to cuddling), but those we don't need to delve into today. Some people are content hugging their beloved pet, but for me, there's no substitute for a 1,6m+ tall 55kg+ frame (minimum requirements) to snuggle up to while watching a gripping movie on a typically cold winter evening over some Cheese Curls and a P.S chocolate or two (she had better bring her own snacks).

Come the end of July, when the worst is over, the warm body loses some of it's necessity as the temperatures get warmer and the children come out to play. Those are days we long for, when the braai stands come out the sheds and we can enjoy afternoon beers in the garden.

If you have a cuddle-buddy at the time you read this, enjoy. Should you yearn for one such buddy, give me a call.

I kid...

my sisters...

2011-06-14T19:03:00.002+02:00

When I was young, due to my bigger family’s propensity of bearing daughters, I never realised that I really had in the vicinity of 10 sisters. Due to the discrepancy in our ages, it probably hindered our ability to form the kind of bond that has formed over the last 6 years or so. There is a closer bond with my aunts closer to my age, and by closer, I mean a difference in age of at least 8 years.

Last night I got to hang out with my aunt, Pelisa, who now lives in P.E working as a nurse and is happily married with 2 children. The preceding sentence though does not describe the woman who was sat across me at the dinner table at Cape Town Fish Market last night. Before we had been presented with the menu, she already had ordered a bottle of Sake to go with her double G&T. This is a woman who probably last partied when Mandoza’s Nkalakatha was top of the charts. She still had space for four more G&T’s and a couple more tequilas, as well as polishing off the majority of that sake, in between tucking into her sushi. Good thing the good nurse was paying.

The great part of the evening though was reminiscing about the frequent occasions she stayed at our house, and reminding me of some of the crap my brother and I got up to when we were young. I laughed too loud at her interpretation of the events which led to my brother fleeing the house out a bathroom window to avoid a beating, which I was left to endure, after we nearly burnt down the house after taking a curiosity to a box of matches and a bag of charcoal.

The greatest part of our evening was how we communicated like equals, despite our age differences, and our family ties. It has not always been easy to open up to older family members, something that runs true for most South African blacks. There was none of the invasive questions that we have come to expect from our elders. i.e. When are you getting married, finding a house, etc.

I hope she travels safely tomorrow, and she makes a speedy return to Cape Town. I made it clear to her visiting P.E is absolutely out of the question; I mean, have you seen that armpit?!

In the meantime, she has potentially set me up with a project that is very exciting for me and which I hope to be able to report on here in the near future.

epic it was...

2011-06-13T10:48:00.000+02:00

I can tell you, with absolute certainty, the only reason I decided to go to Bronx on Friday night was to satisfy the whims of Jannie. Recently back from the ships, he was a man on a mission. Had it not been for the two and a half hours spent faffing around my house, we would have gone to Claremont, and there is no way we would have had that much fun. Claremont, this much fun. Bronx THIS much fun. Claremont, this much fun | |. Bronx, THIS much fun | |!

We obviously didn’t have our faculties totally together when the decision to go to Bronx was made. That was the result of a visit to S&E’s that was supposed to be innocent. But arriving with a 1,5l bottle of wine, a quartz of Hunters and one of Brutal Fruit, innocence was doomed.

I should have known there would be nothing standard about the night when what turned out to be a drug dealer approached us and Jannie proceeded to have a long conversation with the Nigerian bloke about absolutely nothing in particular. Once inside the club, and had found the dancefloor upstairs, things went downhill. It was Jannie’s idea to take off our shirts, which was not uncommon in the club, and hit the dancefloor.

We started tentatively, just unbuttoning our shirts, but after the tequila, it all came off! Like the shirts, we started dancing tentatively, wary of what was around us. Again, Jannie instigated the grinding. There we were, the subjects of much attention already, two straight men posing as partners, going full on, crotch to crotch, on the dancefloor! And we weren’t holding back!

Where we had found an unattended space to dance, we were suddenly enveloped by men who’s eyes left no doubt as to what they were thinking. But we carried on unabated. A few of these blokes, if they can be called that, sneaked a grab here and there, and eventually weren’t even bothered to sneak anything in.

In Jannie’s absence to purchase drinks, I was proposed by a few gentlemen to an unscrupulous rendezvous in the bathroom, another offered to drive me home, and a young lad was trying to convince me I would be better off long-term with him rather than Jannie. I was relieved when he returned wielding our drinks, because to carry on, I would need a lot!

At this point, there weren’t any available girls to approach, so we had to make do. Jannie wasn’t doing too badly either, engaging in a deep conversation with a guy who wanted to go home with him. But not to the stranger’s home, where his sleeping wife kids would probably cause an awkward situation.

We had been dancing for hours before we realised that a few girls had stealthily made their way into the club. Jannie was first to set the marker, and I played wingman while he tried to pick up the one gorgeous girl. I had my suspicions about the girl I was babysitting, which were confirmed after a while of Jannie making out with his subject and coming over to me to ask if the girls were working the club. It had seemed too easy.

So I moved further down the dancefloor, ignoring the butt-squeezes, to a blondie. This time, it was Jannie’s turn to play wingman. The cover story, which I had to improvise on the spot, was Jannie was gay, I was his straight friend, and I was taking him out because he had very recently broken up with his boyfriend. Jannie wasn’t too impressed, which I blamed on the bastard taking his CD collection, but it worked like a charm!

At this stage, my legs were giving in, because we had been dancing for no less than 3 hours. To my dismay, I lost the girl I was talking to, and presumed she had gone home before I could at least get her number. Jannie had moved on to another girl, and I was stood there looking lonely with the wolves converging.

I was saved by the blonde, who came from nowhere, and we chatted away, which was really me waiting for Jannie to get a piece of action so we could fuck off home. I mean, it was almost 6am! We finally decided to call it a day, but Jannie had this idea of sleeping on the beach (!), acknowledging the possibility of getting mugged or raped, or even both. Nonetheless, I entertained his latest whim, only to reach a beach which was not even visible due to heavy mist!

I wasn’t complaining though, and we took the long drive home in earnest, hitting the bed, or sofa in my case, at a lively 07h30.

It definitely ranked up there as one of the craziest nights, of which there have been plenty, but it was epic!

enerchi tango showcase

2011-06-10T18:47:00.000+02:00

This show wasn't my all-time favourite, of the three other dance shows I have been involved in. And it was shorn of memorable moments that would be retold months afterwards. There was certain blandness to it, perhaps due to the very short runtime of the effort. By definition, it wasn’t a show, but a showcase (if you know the difference, don’t be shy to comment).

I was proud of the performance, only because we had a month’s notice with three unfinished dances to perform. To add to that, two of the pieces were finished the week before the show, and I was absent for one of the rehearsals after the pieces were finished, which gave me 3 rehearsals to perfect what I had already learnt, and incorporate the new bits into the old.

I thought I was doomed, especially coming out of the last rehearsal with no idea which new piece went into which dance. Queue a sleepless night. But I told myself that “fuck it”, just get on there and do whatever you’re doing, even if it is utter rubbish, as hard as you can. It has been drummed into me by my mentor, Jayce, that if you make a mistake, but dancing it hard, you’re a lot less likely to look foolish than making the mistake dancing like a popeye.

I was all good then, until the run-through two hours before the show. I performed the crap out of all three dances, and danced them to perfection! As I was taught, again by my mentor, dancing in front of an audience is about performing. By my definition, a performance is a form of expression, presented in a spiritual setting. The problem is this was during the run-through. The other problem was I performed it perfectly, no mistakes… as the three previous shows taught me, that is a bad omen. And so it proved.

Up to that point, I was a mental rock of fortitude, refusing to succumb to the dreaded nerves. After the run-through, I went through six cigarettes in the space of an hour. I was finished! I sat in the changing-room trying to pull myself towards myself, but to no avail. The interminable wait for our first dance was excruciating! During the run-through, the preceding dance felt like it took a minute. Standing there, in that cold passage next to the bathrooms, it felt like it was going to go on all evening!

It finally ended, and we fell over each other to get on “stage”, which was easy for me because my legs had gone lame due to the “oh shit!” effect (you know, when you can’t move and in your head you’re screaming “oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!” because the nerves have taken over). It must have been worse for Maroula, because she tripped before we got on stage and hurt her little toe! As you can imagine, I was already freaked out walking on there, mouth dry like I had a budgie in there. But then, there’s always that one arsehole who’s gonna completely fuck up your day! Not surprisingly, that was Jannie. Shuffling my lead legs onto that floor, he screamed “Mozziiiie!”, and in that studio, it felt like I was standing right under a church bell!

But a miracle happened. I got to my spot, hearing and feeling my heart beat through my chest like in the cartoons, my head screaming “oh shit!”, and the music started, and I said to myself, “Mximmm, just fucking dance buddy!” And what do you know?! I fucking danced! I even managed to improvise my solo that had been cruelly taken away from me the day before, and bar one or two mistakes here and there, I was on top of it.

My best performance was saved for the hip-hop routine. Can’t remember any of it, but I was on point! As far as I could tell. We’ll have to wait for the video, which can be pretty damning and humbling.

Due to the mistakes I made, I wasn’t filled with the usual euphoria which accompanies a performance, but I was content. Plus I felt broken! Clearly unfit, I was hurting from head to toe, probably due to the intensity I put into those 3 dances which came in the space of 20 minutes. I wasn’t keen on dancing afterwards, but despite my fatigue and thanks to the booze, I was the last off the dancefloor.

The big show comes in September. I got six dances to prepare for. No excuses, no mistakes! Only a performance… That’s my goal. Should be a motto. Copyright that shit…

who am i?

2011-05-16T17:42:00.003+02:00

Not for the first time in the recent past, I was mistaken to be of a gay sexual persuasion. I denied it until the bloody rooster crowed three times, but the man, or queen, was adamant I batted for his team, even suggesting I might not know it yet.

Then the birthday boy, "Eann", said something very profound to me. He said I intercede racial and sexual lines like few do with my persona. That got me thinking; who am I? Straight? Gay? Black? Coloured? White? Zulu (God forbid!)? Do I even know anymore?

I always strive to tolerate anyone that is different to me, something my father struggled with. There was a bit of bitterness attached to it with my old man, and I never wanted that. So perhaps in my endeavor to be tolerant, I added personality features of different social groups.

For instance, my accent can be affiliated to my Model C schooling and my largely English-speaking crowd I hang with (give or take the few moments the black pronunciation comes to the fore). My preference of pink Brutal Fruits, which was one of the last reasons the latest queer thought I was gay, dates back no further than the time I started hanging out with my queers, S+E. Or I so badly want the approval of my mates, I will do whatever it takes to fit in.

Luckily for me, fitting in has never been an issue for me, not since I came to Cape Town and realised that the boundaries can be pushed a lot further than in the Eastern Cape. Nor do I seek approval; rumor has it I possess an inflated self-confidence, which would take care of that.

As far as who I am, I know exactly who Masonge Likhululwe Ngcaba is, What he stands for and what he believes in. Believe this! He aint gay...

ke Dezemba...

2010-12-22T09:47:00.002+02:00

The Dezemba period can be a bit of a bitch sometimes. That’s if chilling at home is as challenging for you as it is for me. One hour and I'm climbing up the walls. Ridiculous, eh? Inevitably you will more than likely go off and do something you will regret, but luckily that was not the case for me during the weekend.

The Heart FM party at the Old Biscuit Mill on Friday got kinda lame, but I don't regret venturing to see Harrison Crump on the decks. I’m surprised by the number of people who don’t know who he is. Suffice to say, they are of a lighter tan and prefer music of an acquired taste. The shortage of decent looking lasses was most disappointing, and probably half the reason the party was a drag. Plus it was also quite freaky seeing Matt abstain from booze. Just doesn't look right and I hope to never see that again.

Naturally, after the relative disappointment of Friday night, I had to put things right. New beginnings seemed to be the motif of the weekend, so I went to Drew's, formerly Greek restaurant, to see what they had done to the place that would make it different. As it turned out, not much. The only difference being the bar has relocated and is now big enough to sit more than two people, and more than one can fit behind it, granted you don't have someone of Big Pun's stature back there. Stomach in, chest out…

I remember when I first hit the club scene in Cape Town all those years ago, hopping from club to club in town, there was always "that guy" who could dance like a mahafaka, and every chick wanted to dance with him, and every guy wanted to dance like him. You know them types. Quite full of themselves, two bitches around their arms... on Saturday, I was "the guy". The last show got me my groove back, and then some of Justin Timberlake's as well for good measure.

We ventured to three spots (the names escape me), and I agitated the floorboards to just about everything the DJ threw up. I even served up a bit of Jika Amajika just in case my versatility was questioned. I was teamed up with a couple of Suthu girls, who can handle themselves on a dance floor pretty well. I got home at 05:30 and I was finished! I swear I crawled the distance from the gate to my bed, and that was not the Smirnoff Storms.

Now it's back to readjustment to the working week, the employer’s sadistic idea of “keeping our economy going”. Trust me, I can keep it going from the beach, no problem.

Shows, prizes and finale

2010-12-13T13:18:00.007+02:00

First of all, a BIG congrats to the r-tards, Stu and Caz, on their beeg news. Caz is currently baking a little r-tard in the oven, and all the best to them. Next up are the wedding bells I predicted a while ago.

Then, the show! The show! What a show! Seriously, I enjoyed it tremendously. I was a small bundle of nerves beforehand, but it was quite understandable considering the delays to the start of the damn thing. It was scheduled to start at 6pm originally, but, you know… Cape Town and time. So the start was set back to 18:30, then 7pm. At 18:55, we were told 5 minutes to go. At 19:00, we were again told 5 minutes to go, and this charade kept on going until 19h30. Intolerable!

I settled myself down by dancing to the background music playing in the studio which was barely audible from the changing room, and it was doing the trick, but also rendering me breathless. I also had S+E to settle me down a bit with small chit chat and the customary giggle here and there. Jayce was the personification of calmness, to her credit, which didn't make too much sense to me.

As nerve-wrecked as I was, when I got on the stage, it was all systems go. I gave it everything I had in the beginning of the intro, and by the time we came off after our section waiting to come on again, I was panting like a dehydrated dog on a hot summer afternoon. But it was going so well, I also had a smile bigger than a 16 year old that had just lost his virginity. It was hard to keep up the intensity due to inadequate fitness levels, but at least I always stayed the course (unlike a 16 year old virgin). At the end of the dance, I was so desperate to get off the stage to the relative privacy of the changing room where I could resuscitate myself.

That was the case with each dance, but the intervals between dances were so short, that convalescing was a rather short lived experience. I made a few small mistakes here and there, and one rather large one in the one dance I had completely waxed, much to my chagrin. But I came back from each mistake with renewed vigour instead of letting them stew in my head.

There were two mistakes that were largely not my fault. First was the pants I was wearing to both hip-hop dances, which were so long they came under the heel of my shoe, causing me to slip now and then, which mercifully, wasn't noticeable. Then the treacherous Standard Bank plastic coin bag!

Right before our first hip-hop dance, standing at the doorway, I saw the damn thing blow onto the stage and, to my horror, land right where we would be dancing. My focus was lost immediately. Kielan, the other dancer in our "crew", spotted it while we were dancing and picked it up and attempted to throw it out the door, only to chuck it right where I was headed! I was amazed I managed to keep it together and get on with it (which consisted of dancing around the stray bag), and as it turned out, it was my pants which caused slip ups, not the bag.

Everything went well from there on, bar the finale (yet again). After we took our bow, Jayce and I proceeded to dance like right fools, which pretty much summed up the whole finale. Jayce and I immediately headed out for our post-show tequila, which went down as smoothly as cod liver oil. Then the prize giving… Jayce and I were sat there, both somewhere else in our heads while they were talking us up for the Most Dedicated Dancers, waxing lyrical about Jayce's broken ankle and my inexperience, and even after they called us up, we just sat there like prats as if we were called up for six of the best by the school master. Idiots…

After a quick change and a bit of M+I, we were on the dancefloor for the rest of the night, only disturbed by a quick beer run or a ciggie break. Ernie was having a ball out there and insisted on an Usher song, and he would have screamed bloody murder had the playlist not been altered to suit his needs (he was already screaming bloody murder to Stefan for God-knows-what-gays-fight-about). Dani finally kicked us off just before 12am, sweating and panting, but no less motivated. I was finished, to be honest, but we had to go the extra mile as Jayce and I do and stayed up watching America's Best Dance Crew until 3am. Idiots…

Luckily I was pretty easy on the poison, so the hangover wasn't so severe. The thought of going to some work strategic meet on a Sunday made me feel worse though. This week is the last week of dancing for the year, and what a year it has been!

I have to give a really special thanks to Jayce for dragging me kicking, screaming and sulking to my first class, from which I haven't looked back. The last show at the Kalk Bay Community Centre was definitely the lowest point, a show I went to totally unprepared and in the wrong frame of mind. The highlight was the rest of the 6 months or so I spent in the studio and on a stage. I have to thank Jayce as well for the late nights spent going over dances and technique, and one day, she will make a great teacher if she ever gets around to trying it. I'm not the easiest character to teach anything, a little slow on the uptake and full of it, but she managed.

I have a few weeks to shut off from dancing now. What to do, what to do…

Show Time!

2010-12-08T13:18:00.002+02:00

Show week has been a bit of a letdown. I was expecting massive nerves (which I fully expect to hit Saturday morning), massive panic attacks about incomplete dances/costumes, and many an extra rehearsal. Alas, none of that; not even a Friday evening oh-shit-we-screwed rehearsal!

To our credit, choreography for each of the dances was done a while ago (bar a solo here and there), and in my case, I'll be wearing stuff I wore in previous dances. All that's left is to perform without making a tit of ourselves. That's the hard part. We all have the dances in our heads, now all we need to do is gooi.

How we master our nerves will play a large part in how we perform. That was my downfall in the last show, and each dancer would tell you how nerves have impacted a dance or two in the past. Some have learnt to master their fears. They have learnt to either talk themselves into a position of strength, or to simply ignore them and focus on what they are doing.

My plan is simple. Alcohol! A shot of tequila or vodka will sort me out. Dutch courage will take me where I want to go. I have relied on it previously on those hazy nights at 2am when pickings were slim, and a simple score was necessary to salvage the night into something more than just a night out on the tiles. No need to get plastered; that's for afterwards (a tequila will be pre-ordered to be presented to me at the exit after my last dance). But something to calm those butterflies.

The general consensus around the studio is some sort of debauchery will follow after the finale. Although I plan on getting a head start, one is never sure with these dancers. Should debauchery follow, it will be interesting to pit them against JC, who can hold her own on a good night, as long as vodka, whisky, or tequila shots are not involved. Time will tell which way it goes.

Touch wood there will be pictures, if S & E's collective arm can be twisted far enough (mention boys in tights and they'll be there in a flash). It would be nice to have something on the Chrismukkah cards. Bah Humbug!

Sandals, Sarongs and Muesli

2010-11-22T16:51:00.002+02:00

In truth, I'm probably pretty sour with how the weekend turned out. Not all of it, but some of it. It would be folly to expect every weekend to be a barnstorming, mad cap, no holds barred, don't-give-a-rats-ass-bout-tomorrow kinda stuff. But you can't blame me for setting high standards, can you?

That said, as a result of the barnstorming, mad cap, no holds barred, don't-give-a-rats-ass-bout-tomorrow kinda stuff, my Minister of Finances told me in no uncertain terms to stay the fuck home or Salty Cracks will seem like the stuff of royalty. So, in good 'ol fashion, I told him to fuck off. And indeed, a mere Salty Crack, never mind butter or jam, has been the stuff of daydreams, along with Eva Longoria, now she's back on the market.

I exaggerate for effect, but you know what I mean.

The most pleasant thing about this weekend was the absence of a hangover and having a good night's sleep every night. PhUzA THuRsDaY was a temptation at some point, but not the usual good guy vs. bad guy (angel vs. devil) scene that usually plays out in my head for all of a minute before I cave in. It was a mere passing thought I dismissed without realizing it. Friday, on the other hand, was sadly a number of unrelated events doing their best to piss all over the good kinda morning I had craved for ages. Thus, the pissed off sundowner cocktails.

5 cocktails, 2 Brutal Fruits, a tequila, a jaggerbomb, and a dodgy smoke later, and I was on the porcelain telephone having one intense conversation to nobody in particular, just getting it all off my chest stomach. I'm quite relieved by that, actually, because I was pleasantly surprised to, first of all, to wake before 7am, and secondly, be hangover free in the morning. That wasn't the only surprise, unfortunately. The South African Weather Bureau likes to keep us guessing, and I don't think any of us building stalls at Mynardville for the Art of Living "fair" at 7am had guessed right, strutting around in barely anything bar the token rain coat here and there (and in one case, came out rocking in sandals). Had we been expecting the rain, wind and cold, we would at least have downed the "one for the road" cuppa on our way out, but as it was, we were sat there huddled under a small gazebo with no side covers dreaming of bed and hot showers, and in my case, killing JC the one responsible for volunteering me to this thankless task.

Dance rehearsal after we were finished helping out was no picnic either. I refrained from taking off my socks, which had been waterlogged for the best part of an hour. They didn't look grand, but at least the suspected odour underneath was kept in check. After rehearsal we were scheduled to go back to Maynardville to join the sandals, sarongs and muesli brigade (Observatory must have been shorn of much of its population for the day), but like any decent, civilised, self-respecting people with any sense of self-preservation, JC and I stayed home and put on the telly and filled up the beer glass. To be honest, I felt quite guilty to leave the troops out there. To be even more honest, I was best pleased to be tucked under munching on lasagne.

The rest of the weekend petered away in episode after episode of 24 and Haven. 24 was epic, as expected. Tears welled up in me eyes during that final scene. Season 8 is definitely a keeper!

This weekend shall be manic. We gonna have to keep our noses clean this weekend due to JC's show, which I have a guest appearance in. Afterwards is Lisa's birthday at a location I still have to be brought up to speed on. Its pimps and ho's is all I know. Remember this? Rosemary is back ya'll!

blurry patterns...

2010-11-16T15:18:00.003+02:00

Weekends are falling into a regular pattern:

Thursday – 19h00 – 03h00: PhUzA THuRsDaY
Beverage of the Day – wine + delicacies of choice
Friday – 07h00 – 17h00 worsthangoveratworkever™
Friday – 17H20 – 22h00 comatose
Friday – 22h00 – 22h30: Evening Snack
Friday – 22h30 – 07h00: comatose
Saturday – 10h00 – 13h00: Dancing
Saturday – 15h00 – 19h00: Rugby on the telly
Saturday – 19h00 – 23h00: So You Think You Can Dance
Beverage of the Day – beer, vodka, and delicacies
Sunday – all day activity: Recovery…

If you are curious about what I’m doing this weekend, refer to the schedule above. There might be a tweek here and there, but by and large, this covers it.

Not that it’s boring, ya’ll. I spend my time with purely entertaining people. Hardly a dull moment, and should we come across a dull moment, as JC and I sometimes do, we find creative means to will away those minutes (that’s how PhUzA tHuRsDaY starts).

This weekend is that sticky period before payday, when one needs to spend the weekend at home or go out on a serious budget. Were it not for the cancellation of the show, we would be in the doldrums, turning tricks for a buck.

I say that in jest, but at least someone was doing something for a couple of brownie points from The Big Guy. Will was busy hosting a tea party for Cancer Ass of SA (“?!” I haven’t asked yet) on Sunday to raise funds. I’m sure he’ll be hitting the shooter bar hard at Tiger this weekend. With his own funds of course. Will is a top man! “Misappropriation of funds” and “Will Human” would never be found in the same sentence.

Of course today is Tuesday, another day JC and I have come to dread. Only because it has evil means of providing us with generous amounts of wine, just large enough to ensure a healthy dose of a hangover the next day and enough to make the two dance classes in the evening a traumatic experience.

made it to the other side

2010-08-30T08:46:00.004+02:00

Now that I am on the other side of the weekend and have, by and large, survived, I can say it was a super one. My body is broken from 10 hours of dance rehearsals during the weekend. It didn't help that for the majority of those hours I was suffering heavily from various hangovers and sleep deprivation.

I'm still alive, right? On Sunday morning, I was wishing otherwise. Can't remember the last time I felt that horrible. It's inexplicable how terrible I felt. I kept on falling asleep at rehearsal, much to the amusement of the girls. Mental note never ever to mix beer, vodka, and whisky ever again.

Talking of dance, the show is in 6 days. JC still isn't walking without her crutches, but she should be ok. Then there's the krumping piece which we are doing, which is way too fast for me to piece together in my mind and perform.

There's a lot of banter from the boys in the office. It seems they'll be turning out in numbers to jeer, hoot and howl. Just to make a menace of themselves. I'm getting very nervous, generally just because of that krumping piece.

I was watching So You Think You Can Dance on Saturday, and it made me feel very inadequate. Gave me a lot of tips and tricks. Perhaps I'm hard on myself, seeing that I have been dancing for all of 5 months, but I would have it no other way.

It's gonna be a nervous week, one missing vodka and whisky and beer.

Enerchi Dance Showcase

2010-08-24T11:13:00.003+02:00

The big show is finally upon us, right out of nowhere. I'll be in six dances all in all, so it should be worth a watch.

Tickets are selling like hotcakes at R50 apiece, so give me a holla if you want in. If you not into the dancing, then seeing me falling on my ass should be worth a watch.

comings and goings

2010-08-16T01:55:00.001+02:00

FIFA10 is absolute rubbish. There, got that off my chest. I'll have to apologize to my boet later, the FIFA fanatic he is.

While I'm venting my spleen, can anyone tell me who this Justin/Jason Bieber is? And why is he/her/it famous? I could Google him/her/it, but that's time I'll never get back. You could argue that the time it took me to write this, I could have used it to school myself, but fuck that. I get the feeling it ain't worth it.

I've been trying to get back to reading, but pickings have been slim when it comes to reading material. since I stumbled upon that bookstore in Mowbray that sells books for R20, I have refused to shop anywhere else. it doesn't help that the store closed down. so far, I have started two books and quit after 20 pages, one about a 14 year old girl, and another about a 16 year old discovering liqour. I'm about to start 'Sushi for Beginners'. Usually, a love story would have no place on my bedside table, but I did mention slim pickings.

It's a trying week ahead, trials and tribulations and all. I say "bring 'em". It's been that kind of year, and I'm still standing.

Did I mention the new "do"?

Before and After...

2010-07-27T11:55:00.003+02:00

Before

After

Footballistically Craptastic...

2010-07-23T15:15:00.004+02:00

This post was written in the bog and under severe pressure. Not the kind of pressure brought on by my irregular bowel movements, the consequence of dodgy garage pie, but constant requests to update the blog. So if it’s crap, well...

So the WC has come and gone, and by now, the flags and other paraphernalia are down, bar the one or two mirror socks that haven't been diefed. I must be honest and say I hardly enjoyed this WC, bar the opening game and the Germany/Argentina game here in CT.

First of all, from a football fan’s point of view, it was a horrible WC. I didn't see too much of USA ’94, but enough of it to know it was terrible. Teams were negative, scared of losing, and the tournament suffered as a result. 2010, footballistically, was on par. I can count the number of memorable games and moments off the top of my head.

Then there's FIFA. I’m not going to go into how they raped and pillaged the country of billions, and even bullying Madiba out of bed, in his state, to watch what was an awful closing ceremony (the opening was no better) and sit through a final which summed up the tournament. Downright awful.

I don't have that feel-good feeling everyone is walking around with because we hosted a superb showcase. Unlike everyone else, I knew we would pull it off. I'm proud to say I never had an inkling of a doubt we would do it. Hosting international sporting events is what we do. We even managed to host the IPL on a month's notice. The feel-good factor wore off ages ago for me. No other country has hosted the rugby, cricket and football World Cups, and we did it despite the rest of the world (bar Sepp), who must still be chewing on that humble pie (he’s rolling around on a bed of $100 bills).

The dance show creeps closer, and my last guesstimation has me doing five (5!) dances. Just going over them in my head gets the flutterbyes fluttering away in my belly. JC keeps breaking her ankles and knees, and if she's involved in another "accident", I'm ruling out clumsy/accident prone and labeling her "a danger to her own self", or downright suicidal. If I was being blunt. If she breaks down, we are fubar. And because karma is such a bitch, the joint will be as packed as jeans on a fat ass.

Don't know if I can bear to watch those 22 nobodies posing as Boks tomorrow, but I'm damn excited to see the Aussie backline in action. Nonetheless, GO BOKKE!!!

giggles...

2010-06-24T09:55:00.007+02:00

Well, Bafana's, and all of South Africa's dream of advancing to the second round of the World Cup ended rather disappointingly. Around the watercooler, I was lamenting the celebratory mood of the country. For the period Bafana played against 10 Frogs, they drew 1-1. And considering what was at stake, it was a real lame effort from the boys in the 2nd half. I got labeled a traitor and other colorful names for that, but I still refuse to celebrate mediocrity.

It's another dance show this weekend, 'Dancing in the Moonlight', and we are even less prepared this time. But I'm refusing to panic, unlike JC, who's hands, never mind finger, are continuously banging on the panic button in a ferocious manner. Of course it's easy for me since I have two dances, one of which I'm only involved in half of, if that.

We took the time the time on Saturday to hang out with the crew from the studio. Turned out to be a rather hilarious affair on my part, suffering from the giggles after a few joints. Big time. The consumption of large amounts of braai vleis usually isn't a laughing matter, but you know how it is. And I did consume a lot of vleis, and the sweet potato... You had to taste it. And the pasta salad deserves an honorary mention as well.

So, with flags coming down, vuvuzelas at half mast, and mirror socks consigned to the scrap heap, the question now is, who to support now?

NZ Maori Haka Led By Hosea Gear

2010-06-24T09:07:00.001+02:00

imma be...

2010-06-10T09:28:00.003+02:00

As I predicted, nerves were the main feature of Saturday before our dance. After waking up in the morning and engaging in chest-beating bragging of mastering my nerves, my bravado quickly wilted away as we prepared for the day. The bravado turned to weeping cowardice practiced in the foetal position with incomprehensible ramblings thrown in for good measure.

Luckily, I had the leader of the crew with me, and I would love to say it was her calm disposition that got me through it, but it was her own weeping and Smegal-esque ramblings in the corner that made me feel I was in good company.

In the hour preceding our routine, we were sat in a small, cold room outside the dressing room with the other dancers, and we took comfort in each others nerves. It helped non that they changed the schedule on a whim, which had the dressing room in a frenzy.

I'm glad to say the nerves didn't get the better of us during the dance. My inexperience, on the other hand, did. I made a couple of small mistakes which I let stew in my head during the dance, which meant I wasn't fully focused. While it is widely believed I was good, I believe I could have been a lot better.

We were just so happy to get through the evening, JC and I went on a bit of a tequila run. Double shots. We don't fuck around. Not everybody could handle it, but at least the barman had faith in our abilities to hold our own. He's obviously not THAT clued up about his job because he reckons JC can hold her liqour better than I can. But I was not the one who, minutes later, was rolling over her ankle, unimpeded, and had it not been for that poor door, which she clung to for dear life, would have had a lot more to worry about than her poorly ankle.

Needless to say, we left the studio at a rather ungodly hour. There will be a repeat of Saturday at the end of the month. This time, it will be on an actual stage. Should we do the 'Russian Roulette/Imma Be' routine again, we'll be just fine. Otherwise, there will be more cowering and jabbering and weeping.

burning ship in blouberg...

2010-06-04T10:27:00.004+02:00

Tweet or Twit

2010-06-01T12:03:00.003+02:00

I've decided to give the world of Twitter another go. What does that make me? A Twit? I noticed the button to update your status on Twitter says Tweet, not Twit. For obvious reasons. No one would click on the damn thing to confirm they're a twit.

Anyways, I'm finding it to be a bit more fun this time. I'm following a bunch of celebs who's activities I may be vaguely curious about, such as Bryan Habana, Graeme Smith, Quade Cooper, DJ Fresh... Fresh was Tweeting every 5 minutes yesterday, which is ridiculous. I mean, really now...

You can catch my Tweets on mozez22

Saturday is the dance show, or extravaganza. Whichever way you put it, I'm crapping my pants. Mostly because I don't know what I'm doing, and partly because that's what I do. I crap my pants. I'm double booked that night. Or the appointments overlap, on some level. The Drowleys are doing a birthday thing at the Skank Motel. We haven't seen each other since last November, so we had a catch up session last night, watched Vampire Diaries... like old times, really.

The party has the potential to be awesome, or disastrous. Since I'm getting there after my routine, which I have no ETA for, I will either be ecstatic it went well, or devastated it bombed. If I'm ecstatic, I will be high on adrenaline, and will be the hub of energy of old. If it bombs, I will be a miserable cunt, and will drink heavily, and, well, I'll still be a hub of energy, but I won't remember, knowing me and that crew.

Potentially an awesome weekend. Potentially a forgettable one. Could go either way. I'll keep you posted, or just take a peek at my Tweets.

early morning waffle...

2010-05-25T02:10:00.001+02:00

02:17 A.M, sleep is hard to come by. Funny thing that, seeing that every waking hour of yesterday was spent wishing for just that. The irony...

Before you ask, yes, I have counted sheep. I had excersize from dance class so I should be pretty knackered, and I just read as many pages as I could take from the "Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy" before realising it was as futile as anything I have tried.

Last option would be sex, but it's not really on the cards seeing that it would be me and Han(d) Solo. You ask what's so hard about making a fist and milking your now hard member, and I could come up with a few good reasons. But it's 02:17 A.M, and non of them come to mind.

So I forayed into the refrigerator for the other well known facilitator of sleep, booze. I clearly did not learn my weekend's lessons, because this drink is like three fingers vodka, four ~~horizontal~~ fingers apple juice.

The only good it has done is excite my bladder, otherwise fuckall. I would try TV, but what is the use of falling asleep in the lounge? The five feet it takes to get to my bed would put paid to all the sleep garnered. At this moment, Mai Hand is starting to look like an attractive Asian secretary.

Ghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhgbn gvgjs fg hhuuuuuj

Nice, it seems writing the blog did the trick. I fell asleep (on my phone, yes) while trying to think of what to write next. Or thinking of the Asian secretary, not sure which.

Anyhew, problem solved.

the legend, of Bhere...

2010-05-20T14:23:00.004+02:00

During my 6-day sojourn to the Eastern Cape, the locals of King Williams' Town, the townships of Phakamisa and Zwelitsha, as well as the nearby villages, could not stop talking about the serial killer that was uBhere. By the time I got there, he was something of an urban legend. One of those "a friend of a friend told another friend..." kind of stories were popping up everywhere. Every man and his dog had Bhere on their lips, and everyone had their own tale to tell. Some even claimed to have known this cat out of Sweetwater.

Bhere is a serial killer, who approached his victims, usually a couple, in a most innocent and innocuous manner, and would ask to speak to the girl alone. The man would obviously have his reservations about giving up his girl to some dude, and Bhere would kill the man upon voicing his concerns. The girl would be raped, and ultimately, join the fate of her other half.

This had been going on for about a month, and by the time I was in the E.C, the story was Bhere had moved to raping both his victims before killing them. Everyone was watchful of who they let into their house, and gone were the days when one could just leave one's front door open, as they do. He was caught two days before I left, and was due to appear in court on Monday.

He is said to have once been an ordinary fella, but something snapped in his head. He may have been one mfugly mofo (judging by his picture on the 'Wanted' poster), but his mother asked the cops nicely to capture him in a humane manner, although they promptly put out a ZAR10 000 reward for him, not specifying whether they wanted him dead or alive.

Despite the man terrorising the area for a month, the locals took it all in good spirit, often making light-hearted jokes about the man. In fact, the legend of Bhere was the highlight of my visit to the Ciskei.

With the talk of the town behind bars, life will again ever be so boring in the Ciskei.

weekend well spent...

2010-05-03T11:00:00.007+02:00

Absolutely fantastic weekend! Could NOT have been better. Well, scratch that. Sharks could have contributed more, but I think that would have led to a lot more drinking, and no need to list the consequences thereafter.

It's a massive contrast considering pHuZa ThUrSdAy, and resulting in a rather awful Friday. But we recovered sufficiently. The braai in Melkbos was awesome, and the quad-biking... well. A superlative to sum it up escapes me right now...

We missioned to Inside Lounge afterward to catch the Sharks/Bulls game. Sharks made a fine attempt at spoiling our mood, but alas, no cigar.

Closed off the weekend watching Vampire Diaries, only because we couldn't get the True Blood DVDs to work. The vampire motif couldn't be more patent.

It's always dangerous to try top a great weekend, but it can't hurt to try. Just need to rope in some willing and able candidates. It all revolves around Saturday 7pm, Sharks vs. Stormers.

so you think you can dance?

2010-04-28T17:34:00.003+02:00

So I finally started hip-hop classes, after years of empty promises that I would. Gotta tell you, it's not as easy as it seems. At least I went there knowing that, so it hasn't caught me by surprise. But it's an awesome experience, nonetheless. It's not that I'm unfit, either. Which I am, make no mistake. But I'm surviving on that front. It's the rolling around, and sliding, and spinning, that gets to me. Monday, post my second lesson, kinda reminded me of that 1st rugby practice. You are sore in places you really never thought you had.

Bless JC for convincing me to give it a shot. Not sure about the show in June. I soil my pants just thinking about it. But then again, if X could do it, I see no reason why I couldn't.

Tried my hand at a bit of salsa on Friday. Awful! A bit of a quickstep? Atrocious! Some peeps have the gift to remember the steps one-time (read JC), but me, sommer takes me all night, and I'm still getting it wrong. It's not like I'm prancing out there with two left feet, but damn...

I was speaking to my sister the other day, and I was glad she was just as excited about going back home next month. Especially since Ewiva pulled out at very short notice. What could be more awesome than going home to lectures about life, those toe-curling talks on love, sex and marriage, and cleverly disguised criticism of one's work rate or paycheck. Quite frankly, I'm beginning see Ewiva's logic of footing it to the UK; 1000km just isn't enough real estate between me and family anymore.

PS. Anyone with a Stormers/Bulls ticket to sell, post a comment with the price (obviously, don't post as Anonymous Coward). Those things sold like bottles of water at a trance party...

media blackout consequence...

2010-04-05T21:16:00.002+02:00

My decision to go on a media blackout for the long weekend meant I missed the story of the weekend, the brutal killing of AWB leader Eugene Terre'Blanche. Much like 1994 when the whites feared a civil war, now the okes in the townships near his Ventersdorp farm are fearing retaliation from the right wing group.

There are fears of racial tensions flaring up all over the show, but I very much doubt that. We aren't in the 1990's anymore, and the killing was by a bunch of disgruntled workers who felt short changed. And let's face it, how many of us haven't felt like taking a baseball bat to the boss? Luckily we are more sensible.

The whole episode has been fueled by Julius Malema's comments and persistent singing of kill the boer. If anybody had an interest in tearing this country apart using a civil war, the recipe is out there, the ingredients just waiting to be mixed together.

Amazing what one can miss over a weekend of not checking the news feeds, like Ricky Martin finally stepping out the closet, although the door was always open for all to see.

anticlimax deluxe...

2010-03-24T13:17:00.004+02:00

Ever bigged something up for so long, the time nears and the excitement builds up until it's unbearable, and the time comes and the whole event is a flop?

Never before, but here we are. Embarrassing... The puns are intended.

patiently waiting...

2010-02-25T14:45:00.002+02:00

Midweek became Thursday, Thursday became Friday, and now Friday is a maybe. Yes, I'm getting stuffed around by the mechanic shop with my car. No real surprise, but you can't blame a bloke for living in hope. What can I do?

The rugby was a big disappointment last Saturday. We were all hungover, unable to get over it, and the rugby was not at all inspiring. Friday night itself was ill-advised, but that's nothing new. So we are giving it a shot again this weekend. Better seats, hopefully we'll all be somewhat sober, although there are whispers of Mynardville tonight.

In typical SA fashion, everybody is jumping on the Die Antwoord bandwagon. They are the biggest thing at the moment until they fade away. Having seen them play at Purple Turtle last year, they are nothing new. But every person and his granny keeps asking me if I have come across them. If you haven't, check it out.

PS. Strictly for Saffas...

Who knows where the hell the Republic of Khakassia is?

CT to PTA, PTA to CT...

2010-02-18T09:28:00.004+02:00

The new South African theme song should be modelled around 50 Cents' "Baby by Me", the SA version going something like "Have a baby by me, baby see me disappear". Just a thought.

The trip to Pretoria, as brief as it turned out to be, was certainly interesting. 5o'clock is an ungodly hour to be up and about, but what can I do? I got to the airport and leisurely sauntered around like I had all morning, until the final boarding call for my flight was announced. At which stage I grew into a mild panic (read frantic panic). I ran all the way down one terminal (yes, CT International can boast of several terminals now), only to find I was nowhere near where I was supposed to be.

I eventually found my way, no thanks to the staff who were no more interested in being there than I was. First, to my relief, then to my annoyance, there was still quite a queue at the boarding gate. Sprinting down two terminals wasn't fun, you know.

Getting lost at CT International did not bode well, of course. OR Tambo ate me alive. After a few phone conversations with my driver, we finally got a fix on my general location, and off we went to PTA. If we thought we have reason to complain about roadworks in Cape Town, think again. There's a stretch on the Louis Strydom drive between PTA and JHB, going for about 1km or so, with one lane only. To boot, there a fender bender holding up the works even further.

My driver was a really talkative fella, who wasn't shy to share some rather intimate details of his life. He had a bone to pick with Indians and women, as well. How dare his mistress desire a relationship with someone who will put her first, his wife to suspect of him of sneaking around, and an Indian customer to enquire why he isn't driving fast enough when "he's late for a meeting"? Nogal! He labelled all women as greedy/unsatisfy-able, untrusting bitches, and Indians dodgy fellas with no respect. He had a bone to pick about Cape Town, but I was quick to point out we hardly have to drive to the other side of the world to get to work (unless you stay in Somerset West, in which case you're an idiot). He went on a tirade about Indians again, just as well; I hadn't started on the mountain, the sea, and the babes.

I found myself lost, for the third time in a matter of hours, at the Telkom Towers, only to be rescued by a female who boasted more facial hair than I can claim to have grown in my entire life (depressing). That was as exciting as things got inside the building; the rest was a bunch of clever dorks trying to outdo each other all day.

I was VERY early for my flight back, so I spent my time doing a tour of OR Tambo, for future reference. R100 I still get lost on my next sojourn there. Lessons learnt from this trip? Don't go to Gauteng!

Considering going to the Stormers game at Newlands this weekend, no doubt in my Sharks jersey. Unfortunately it overlaps a braai I was invited to by a new friend. Have to weight my options. If it came down to a snog against rugby, we all know which would win...

betty in convalescence

2010-02-10T13:51:00.003+02:00

Betty looking rather poorly after being recovered in Mannenburg...

for the guys...

2010-02-04T10:05:00.003+02:00

In case, like me, you had no idea what a GHD is...

Acronym for Good Hair Day...

absence over

2010-02-03T22:53:00.000+02:00

Ok, I've been missing in action for a while (understatement!). Laziness, increased workloads, and general couldn't give a damnness would be the contributing factors to my scarceness.

Another factor would be that damn spam posted on my posts' comments. I'm righting a scathing letter as we speak to Blogger® support, as we speak. As if I don't have enough spam issues to deal with at work.

December, aka Festive Season, was probably the queitest I've been through since I was in high school. I wasn't very bothered though, it's been a while since I got caught up in any of that B.S. Take New Year's eve; my plans only sorted themselves out around 7pm. It was still awesome, because Table View is like that.

2009 ended on a superb note. Here in South Africa, 2010 has generated SO much excitement about what could be, but so far, it's been the worst start to a year imaginable, culminating in the theft of Betty two weeks ago. She has since been found, but my insurance company, Santam, has dragged it's feet to no end.

Things are starting to look up though, although everytime I start to think things could get no worse, they reach a new low.

Let's hope that's all over with. It's good to be back!

World Cup Draw

2009-12-04T14:24:00.003+02:00

You would think people in Cape Town would be excited about the World Cup Finals draw taking place today, but I have come to find that is not necessarily true. The buzz is restricted to town, it would seem. Elsewhere, it seems to be business as usual.

I'm planning to hit Long Street later, but I think parking will be an issue. While grabbing a taxi is nice in theory, it's a bitch in practice. People seem to be concerned about the possible hike in prices caused by the influx of tourists. Me says it can't get worse than Camps Bay, so let's start a party!

The whole draw is going to be a bore, and I doubt too many people will be paying attention to it. I'm going down there for the vibe of the Long Street Festival, to see for myself what the fuss is all about. I'm no fan of Long, but I make exceptions now and then.

just cruisin...

2009-10-02T13:57:00.003+02:00

This is JP's ride nowadays... Not bad at all, if I may say so...

citrusdal excitement...

2009-08-07T08:58:00.001+02:00

Right! Top of the morning and feeling as right as rain. I'm way too excited about the trip to Citrusdal. But there's a lot yet to be done.

Packing would be a start, but I'm notoriously a last minute packer. I think a good hour at the gym wouldn't hurt either. The treadmill would put me in good stead for tomorrow's paintball session. There's the quad-biking session to consider as well, but I think I'll give it a miss.

The downside about the weekend is I have a bit of homework to get through. I'm sure I can get through it come Sunday.

Time to get the day started then. I do love a bit of a roadtrip.

PS. How do I get onto the N7?

bok befok!

2009-07-27T11:50:00.003+02:00

Am I glad the weekend is over or what? Ya read that right. Thank God it's Monday. Otherwise I'm sure someone would still be finding a reason to go out and do something. Like drink.

The rugby on Friday was great. The game was boring, but the event was great. S2e and Coffee were a little despondent after the game, but S2e got over it after a stint in front of a camera, during which Caz was virtually the victim of a gang rape (which she mentioned on camera). Luckily, the kid was pretty good at saying "no" when it came to alcohol, and I limited myself to a couple of drinks.

That proved a wise decision on Saturday afternoon, again putting in a good performance. The Bok game was a great watch, and I have never seen an All Black side dominated in that fashion before. I watched the game at Mini Cooper's house with his brother and King Arthur. We had some boerie on the braai after the game, and watched THAT Motown Michael Jackson performance on DVD. I think it was the first time he did the moonwalk, but I stand corrected.

We all dispersed after a while and I joined Damage at Cactus. At this point, I was hurting and tired from the rugby and should have gone to bed. But I didn't. Along with the R-tards, we ventured to the Mont, and Caz was unfortunately Bok befok, and went on a Springbok shooter spree. Amarula has never gone down well, and it was the case again this time. I saved my porcelain praying routine for when I got home, though. It definitely had nothing to do with the bubbly we were so happily hitting at 6am at home.

I was happy to wake up sans hangover, just a sore eye (?) and ribs. I had a long lunch with Damage, before retiring home to munch down on a prego roll and then take relationship advice from a 12 year old.

Monday has by no means been easy, but it could have been worse. Tonight will be a rest day rather than going to the gym to sweat it all out.

WP, jou lekker ding

2009-07-24T12:05:00.005+02:00

Amazing how well your day goes when the sun is out and there is something to look forward to. More than anything though, I'm hoping to a sober night. Highly unlikely (double jinx?). The first clue would be our rendezvous, Springboks. I don't know of anyone who has walked out of the place sober. Apart from the fella that got knocked senseless by one of the bouncers a few years ago. I bet he sobered up pretty quickly.

The reason I'm hoping to stay sober, apart from my game tomorrow and my disposition for hangovers, is the Boks game tomorrow. I want to be on top form when cheering the Bokke! There's something happening over at Tableview as well, but judging from the past few weeks, I'll be pretty knackered come 7pm.

My Sharks shirt is washed and ironed, got a good night's sleep behind me, and I'm ready to take on the world. I'll be on an oxygen high tonight; should be great!

night jol...

2009-07-23T10:40:00.003+02:00

I just found out in two week's time, we will be playing a night game! There's something about playing at night; the game is much quicker, but your stamina seems to last a lot longer. I have played one night game before, and although I was shafted to the wing, I still enjoyed the game. It was trials for some Western Province Colts team or something. I must have impressed the coaches, because I was selected for the next round of trials, but couldn't make it. It was 2005 BC (Before Car).

The season is coming to an end in four weeks time. During the middle of the season, I wasn't so keen to play anymore. But I went through a rejuvenation when I was switched from Fullback to Centre. I suppose I should have listened to Allan Miles, who has been recently appointed at the coaching staff of the Golden Lions, when years ago, on the 1st cricket field of Selborne College during a game of touch rugby, he said I should be playing Centre. I suppose my weight has always deterred me.

But I can't remember enjoying my rugby like I have during the last five weeks. Touch wood it continues. The problem with the night game is I'm supposed to be going away for Andrea's birthday that day. I will have to leave after the game, which isn't much of a problem. Excitement is!

There's a lot happening this weekend as well, to boot. Tomorrow CC, the R-tards, Coffee and myself are off to watch the WP/Cheetahs game, and I'm the only one who won't be supporting a team. CC and Caz will be rooting for the WeePee, and the Afrikaaners, S2e and Coffee will be shouting for Vrystaat. Look out for the darkie, the colored, and three whiteys on the Railway Stand. I'll be wrapped up pretty good; the ever-reliable SABC reckons no rain and a minimum of 11C.

I just have to avoid drinks after that. Easier said than done.

lazy blogger, eh?

2009-07-21T13:56:00.003+02:00

Quite the lazy blogger nowadays, aren't we? Must be the winter and all, and definitely not a lack of material to share.

I've been spending a lot of time with CC and CJ this past month. It's been unmitigated fun, and never over the top. I haven't gone home with regrets the morning after, either. Only a lust for more, I suppose.

Especially Sunday. It was a magnificent day, reminiscent to the summer days we took for granted. We made full use of the opportunity by whipping out the braai stand, charcoal and Blitz, heading over to the Spar for some chops and boerie, and kicking back.

The dancing girls were late as usual, and thanks to the manager at the 7/11, we had wine to compliment the day.

We're giving this weekend a skip, because it's rugby weekend! CC, Mini Cooper, King A, the R-tards, Coffee and myself are planning on going to see the game between Province and Cheetahs on Friday night. I say "planning" because non of us had bothered to take a look at the weather forecast for Friday. A bit of rain and I bet the yellow bellied land lubbers will fold like a pack of cards.

I've been taking up a new interest lately. Afrikaans comedies. I've watched Poena is Koening, and last night caught Hond se Dinges. Kak funny. Maybe I'll catch another one this weekend if my weekend is as chilled (cursing it).

at the mercy of mother nature...

2009-07-13T14:39:00.007+02:00

Mother nature is at her bitchiest here in the Cape. And we all know Cape Town peeps; a bit of rain and they're all freaked out. Hell, we closed a whole freeway this AM, over a little bit of water.

On Friday, I was chilling with people made of some different stuff though. Rain or not, CC, JC and myself whipped out the braai stand, organised an umbrella, booze and skilpaatjies.

Problem is, I had the little matter of a rugby game on Saturday afternoon, so my drinking had to be limited to light beer. Nontheless, we all had fun listening to a 'Wackhead' Simpson CD and munching on some good meat.

Despite only consuming three Savannah Lites, all of 3% alcohol in them, I woke up with a hangover. Seriously. I chilled in bed the whole morning before heading over to the field. The game was a bruiser, but we were playing the bottom team in the league. Evidence was the 51 points we wracked up.

That wasn't the fun part though. The fun and games were on the 1st XV bench. Some of us were sat there for some 80 minutes in the biting cold and stinging rain, huddled under one umbrella, counting down the minutes. I got a 5 minute run at the end, which I was delighted about just to get moving. The banter on the bench was fabulous though. I raced home afterwards for two reasons; to jump out of the soaking clothing I was in and into a hot shower, and to catch what was left of the Sharks game at Fat Cactus.

I caught the second-half, regrettably. The Sharks were awful, and the less said, the better. Ditto the rest of the evening. I can't remember having a good time at the Stones in Obz.

I spent yesterday with JC and CC, lunch at Rascals, pizza and movies on the couch. Talking a whole lot of shyte as well, just to keep each other entertained. It was brilliant. A day well spent.

The weather is most uninspiring, so much of the same expected this week.

twit or twitter?

2009-07-10T12:04:00.003+02:00

I decided to be a twit and Twitter. It's lousy. All you can do is add "Followers" (read friends), and update your status. That's it. It's like, Facebook Lite. With NO fat, whatsoever. That's the end of that experiment.

My mom called me up during the MJ memorial to ask me if I was watching. She reminded me of the days when I used to go up in front of the telly and impersonate MJ or Lionel Richie when one of their songs went on. I felt like quite a tard, and hurried her through her moment of nostalgia.

I'm keen to go see the game at Newlands tomorrow evening. It's going to rain, I have it on the good authority of the South African Weather Service. But at R50 (!) a pop to see the Sharks, no matter how depleted, and a virtually full strength Province side. Not that many Cape Townians willing to sit in the rain though.

What happened to the "Year of the Fan" campaign?

up yours to the Brits

2009-07-09T08:36:00.005+02:00

The Brits have gotten to my tits now, seriously. Not their citizens, at least, but their sports journalists. Bunch of prats, the lot of them. For a bunch of people who look to Gordon Brown and Prince Charles for inspiration, I can understand why they are utter pricks.

It started with the bunch that came over with the British and Irish Lions team to play the Springboks. They hyped up their team sommer the okes who were left behind to wax lyrical about Andy Murray.

Then after the whole eye-gouging affair, the pricks have the audacity to tell us what to do with our coach. Never mind the propaganda they spread following Pieter de Villiers' press conference after the whole eye-gouging incident. The crap they wrote was so far removed from what de Villiers actually said, it defied belief.

The man on the street would read this in the papers and believe it word for word, but I was smart enough to trawl the Web and look for the transcripts of the press conference. After reading it, I was livid! It was akin to spreading lies.

From my take, they were trying to divert attention from yet another Lions series defeat, branding them heroes, and the Boks savages. How the Brits love to celebrate defeat! I was pissed off, but well, let them stew in mediocrity, while we basked in victory.

Prior and throughout he Confed Cup, all the noises coming from the Brits was how dangerous South Africa was. Apparently, we're too scared to step outside to go buy the milk, fearing hijacking, mugging, rape and murder. Articles of this nature were abundant, and it seemed every effort was being made to discredit our country.

The Lions came and went, all 50 000 of them, with no major incidents. And then I read this article on The Guardian website, which is one of the respected papers and websites. The writer is a regular contributor to the site, and her opinion seems to have been well respected before this article.

The article is despicable and poorly researched, but is similar to many an article I have read from British columnists. Then I bumped into an article written by Jeremy Clarkson after he had visited Jo'burg and stayed there for a few weeks. It made me feel a little better about the British scribes, but not much. It's hilarious, though.

What did we ever do to the Brits? Are they still carrying scars from the Boer war? There definitely seems to be a concerted effort to discredit South Africa as a viable World Cup host, but it will be up to us to prove the Poms wrong. Personally, I'm confident we can do it. The Rugby World Cup, African Cup of Nations, Cricket World Cup, T20 World Cup, IPL, and the many more competitions we have hosted, could not have been a fluke. The Soccer World Cup will be much bigger, but I rest assured we will be ready.

too much dancing leads to sore buttocks...

2009-07-06T10:48:00.004+02:00

"Rough night?" Asked my housemates yesterday after my 12 hour convalescence.

"The night was great, it's the day that's killing me." Was my retort.

Considering I almost didn't go out, I'm in two minds what to make of Saturday night. I came home after my rugby game, which we lost 6-5, I read and fell asleep. I had already written off a trip to Table View, and at 10pm, with no inclination to leave my bed, was about to turn off my phone when CC rang and suggested a trip to Oblivion.

Since he eliminated the risk of driving as well, I couldn't say no, especially with half the quota of dancing girls also going. The girls were in a rather sombre mood, and it would have felt like a wasted trip to go all the way there for such a night. It was nothing Jaggermeister cannot cure though, and soon, we had the girls trawling the dancefloor.

Things soon got complicated though, as they seem to often on a dancefloor. As much as I hate it when someone does this to me, I cannot elaborate on that just yet. Let's just say girl like boy, boy like girl. But it's complicated.

Things just got worse when J, who wasn't working, as I originally had feared, pitched up. I understood why I like that girl, which I don't want to, but I do. What can I do? I was having a hell of a time, so I thought fuck everything, and went bos on the dancefloor (avoiding pole dancing, though). I only get to once a week.

I spent some six hours on CC's couch before heading for my own bed to complete my recovery. My head may be feeling better, but the rest of the body still has to catch up. But there's no rest for the wicked, and life goes on.

the titanic game...

2009-07-01T10:51:00.004+02:00

Ever had one of those weeks that just fly by without anything of consequence happening or achieving anything noteworthy so you just float through the week and let things happen on their own like MTN double debiting your account or the cat next door piss on your car or dropping your lunch of lasagna on your keyboard and being stuck in the office while your mates are at Ratanga Junction and sending you MMS' of what a jolly good time they're having and the only reply you can think of is "Cretins".

So I let MTN have my money, they can hold on to it for me for the time being. The cat next door is off the hook because let's face it, the inquisitive shit will be road kill on the dangerous streets of Mowbray. I have a new keyboard, and I found out the lasagna has tomatoes while I was picking it off my desk, so I suppose I gained a bit there. And the cretins at Ratanga? Well, the mofos have flu from some ride that goes through water. Karma bitches!

Winter makes a real sour puss out of me. I had a friend over last night, and she brought over a bottle of Jack Daniels and a bottle of Simonsvlei Sweet Rosé (it's been a while [!]), along with a copy of Titanic (!). Yeah, I know. I also raised an eyebrow and was like, WTF chicky?!

She settled me down and told me the score. Basically, it's all a drinking game, of sorts. Every time Rose said Jack, she took a shot of her JD, and every time Jack said Rose, I took a shot of my Simonsvlei. She said there would be no winners in this game, just losers. She never mentioned a draw, as we both scored.

The consequences have been dire, of course. But well worth it. At least the day is over, and now I'm left with the biggest dilemma on earth; rugby practice, or jol at Tiger?

rugby saturday...

2009-06-29T11:02:00.004+02:00

If I hear another MJ song, tribute, or conspiracy theory on his death, I'm going to vomit. Every radio station, TV news agency, and man on the street has been at it ad nauseam this weekend. The conspiracy theories are what got to me the most. Don't they know to blame it on the sunshine, blame it on the moonlight, blame it on the good time, blame it on the boogie?

Luckily there was enough to distract me during the weekend. I was supposed to have an early night on Friday due to the busy schedule I had lined up on Saturday. But 2am I was still at Stones with Coffee, Mini Cooper and his date. Mini's date had a hard time handling her tequila, which made for a hilarious conversation at the bar.

Three hours of sleep, and I had to get my 'Rugby Saturday' rolling. First it was off to breakfast and catch the first half of the All Blacks/Italy game. No problem. Then off to SACS to catch some Cape Schools rugby, particularly Selborne vs Paarl Gym. I caught up with a few old boys I knew, and avoided the younger old boys. They are always a distinct bunch; loud, abrasive, shoddily dressed and usually sporting a Castle can.

Unfortunately, Selborne lost 14-18 despite being the better side. Like all the Selborne 1st XVs I watched over my high school years, they only lost as a result of failing to take their chances, not because they were beaten by a better team. I stayed behind to watch the first half of the Grey PE/Rondebosch game, which was quite entertaining.

Then it was off to get my own game underway. During the first 10 minutes, I had the ball six times, created two scoring opportunities, squandered one, and gained some good yardage. I could hear the opposition in a panic plotting how to stop me during one stoppage, which was music to my ears. After that, I hurt my shoulder, and we couldn't keep the ball to save a life. As a result of those missed opportunities and ill-discipline, we went into halftime 5-15 down.

After going down 5-22 early on in the second stanza, we rallied to score five unanswered tries, one of those by me. I did spill one on the line for what everyone reckons would have been try of the season, but oh well.

With my shoulder in so much pain, I decided to have a quiet night, so I chilled at Mel's with CC. I caught some of the highlights from the Boks victory over the B&I Lions, which must have been a fantastic game. We called it a night early at 11pm, because were as uninspired a bunch as you could find.

Yesterday was a beaut of a day, so Mr. Paul, CC, JC and I had lunch at Rascals. I was still pretty buggered, so I decided to catch the Confed game at home after I completed a few errands. I didn't even bother to watch the final, my thoughts were on sleep.

My shoulder is still a little sore, but the anti-inflammatory stuffs did me a lot of good. I might not be able to do any upper body weights this week, but at least I'll be ready to play on Saturday. I quite enjoyed playing centre rather than the fool at the back. Touch wood I stay there.

It's a lovely week ahead; sunshine all the way. Apart from the usual, I have little to complain about.

R.I.P MJ...

2009-06-26T10:08:00.007+02:00

For some reason, I'm highly irritable this morning. For what reason? I have every reason to be cheerful. The sun is out, payday, I'm working half-day today, and 'Wacko Jacko' was put out of his misery.

Don't get me wrong, I loved Michael Jackson. My family still relay the tails to whomever will listen of how I loved the song "Thriller", but couldn't bare to sit through the video. The man was my childhood hero.

But after his face started melting like wax and took up kiddie fiddling, I kept my adolescent admiration for the man to myself. I started to pity the man after he went bust, and him passing on really feels like he has been put out of his misery. R.I.P.

At first I thought the whole MJ 'kicking the bucket' thing was a hoax after some idiots started circulating an e-mail yesterday of some stadium in Malaysia who's roof collapsed and claimed it was the Moses Mabhida Stadium. I saw the thing to be a hoax, and replied to the sender and included everyone that was Cc'ed on the mail to tell them off.

There's no need to be undermining the efforts being put in to successfully host the World Cup. It's shameful and very underhanded. I don't have time for pricks of that ilk.

I must be going through PMS or something; the stress, insomnia, muscle pain, headaches, fatigue, mood swings... I'm telling you. Not sure about the abdominal cramps and bloating, or the breast tenderness. I'll keep you posted though.

Just to have some decent karma on my side, I swung by PEP (!) to buy a couple of blankets, and ransacked my cupboard for some old clothes and shoes, and cruised through to N1 City to drop off the stuff where Goodhope FM were doing this whole "Keep Cape Town Warm" campaign. That's commitment for the cause for you, eh?

They didn't want a pair of running shoes I offered, but no sweat, I know a guy. There's this dude who comes around to ask for food and money in the early evening, so I skipped my gym session to wait for the bloke. They were a tight fit, but his toes will be snug in those. They'll be especially handy if, you know, he's running from the long arm of the law (he's not a fan of the red tape required to go through to "acquire" certain items of his liking).

Now I can sit back and wait for karma to pay me back. Perhaps play the lotto tomorrow.

dedication is...

2009-06-24T12:27:00.004+02:00

Sometimes a screw becomes loose, and I do something out of the ordinary. Last night was such an occasion. Having given gym a skip on Monday in favor of movie night, I decided I had to go all out yesterday. And I did.

After gym, I was stuck in the madness of really, really loyal Bok supporters on their way to Newlands to see the Emerging Boks vs the British Lions. I thought to myself, these cats are willing to freeze and get drenched just to watch a bunch of fellas who don't have a Bok cap to their name and may never get one, and a bunch of Lions dirt trackers. Dedication.

And let me tell you something, it was a storm out there. Monsoon weather, Lions coach Ian McGeechan called it.

Where's MY dedication, I thought. So I pulled over at the Common after the mayhem of Campground Road, and took off into the approaching hurricane. In the dark.

The funny thing is it felt great. The rain was actually making me warm, and it was great preparation for this weekend's game, if it rains (a quick prayer for sunshine). When the wind lashed the rain onto my face, I found myself laughing. I must have looked like a complete whack-job to the onlookers stuck in traffic.

I was expecting a bout of flu this morning, but alas, I live to tell the tale.

I have been approached to blog for a South African sports site. Income is generated from the site's advertising space, which is shared amongst the writers on the site. I'm considering it, but life is hectic as it is at the moment.

It's one more thing I have to make up my mind about. They never cease.

concussions of a dangerous mind...

2009-06-22T14:14:00.003+02:00

Another day, another visit to the doctor. The girl at the reception of Medicare shook her head and asked, "Now what?" So I replied, "Concussion." To which her retort was, "That sounds about right." Sarcasm being my third language, I had to have the last word, so my riposte was, "You should have seen the other guy."

That's how my first game went after my little hiatus. A bloody concussion. And just for the record, the other guy was fine. Maybe he had a temporary dull ache to his knee, but I doubt he felt it with all the adrenaline doing the rounds.

In contrast, I lost some 15 minutes of my life thereafter, and my jaw hurts like hell. I only came to when the half-time whistle blew. I've been too embarrassed to ask the other blokes what I was up to during those 15 minutes.

My doctor wasn't going to let me off the hook either. After I told her I came to see her about a concussion, she told me I shouldn't have anything to worry about without examining me. When I asked about any potential brain damage, she told me I would be fine, as one needs a brain to suffer brain damage in the first place.

Smart ass. And a fine one at that. I should Google her address and poison her beloved mutt she keeps on going about. But she has a point, because I decided to play on the rest of the game with no protection to my head. The brain doctor chewed me out for both, the balding pillock.

I guess he's alright though, because he cleared me to play this weekend. He reckons if I don't get any post-traumatic seizures, I should be alright.

Take that pretty lady-doctor! The funny thing is (not literally), I had a feeling before the game I would get an injury. One severe, but not so bad it would kill me.

The rest of the weekend was far less exciting, I'm afraid. I stayed home on Friday night and arbed around without any intent. On Saturday night, post concussion, I was at JC's with CC watching a rerun of the Strictly Come Dancing finale, and then we watched Kindergarten Cop. We gassed ourselves at the retro fashion and Arnie's one-liners.

We had the intention of heading somewhere during the course of the night, but after a whooping beer between the three of us, we called it a night. CC and I had a police escort following us home. The one night I wouldn't have minded being pulled over, just to get it out the way.

Yesterday there was another cop van following the R-tards and I around while Caz was behind the wheel in Rondebosch East. Caz decided she wanted to cruise around the area after we had been at CC's place watching some American football movie. The boys in blue must have figured we were casing the place out. Just as well they didn't pull us over, because Caz lacks a learner's license, and the dozing S2e at the back could have been classified a passenger.

I certainly hope this weekend is a lot more exciting. Things are a lot quieter around the house with the 12 year old away in Knysna on a school trip. Quieter isn't always better, though.

tooth fairy brought me something...

2009-06-19T11:22:00.004+02:00

I'm pretty upset this morning, after the Proteas choked yet AGAIN! But anyhew, nuff of that. Nuff was said last night at the household.

I'm also upset I'm going to the dentist in an hour. My front tooth started hurting like a mofo after I had soup last night, and it hasn't let up. I mean, tears were welling up in my eyes it was so sore. It's one of the teeth I had an 'accident' on last year.

Two aspirins and two anti-inflammatory painkillers later, mixed with some vino, and I was out like a light.

God bless modern medicines!

matric dance or matric farce...

2009-06-18T08:16:00.005+02:00

I had a freaky-ass dream last night. I was cruising along in Betty after a night on the town, and I got lost. I cruised down a road which went over a river for some distance, and then all of a sudden, there was no more road. I rode over the edge, and into the river. I jumped ship, and ended up in a house by the river with my mates chilling there.

I told them about the demise of Betty, and we came outside to check this out. Some dude was gingerly driving Betty out the water, gave me the keys, and told me I would have to get my carburetor checked out. And off he went. It was light by now, and we all just shrugged and had some breakfast and went to bed.

The dream seemed so real, I woke up, jumped out of bed in a state of panic, then realised hang on. It was daytime in the dream when I went to bed. It's dark now. I would never sleep that long. Massive relief!

I was astonished by the amounts of money matrics have to shell out to attend their matric dance nowadays. Back in my day (I know, I know...), it was R100 for you and your partner, and the rest went to your apparel. My suit cost me a cool R1,500, while my date's dress, hair, shoes and jewelry cost her something around R2,000. The after-party was organised at someone's house, so all you had to bring was yourself, your date (or whoever's date you stole during the course of the night), and your booze.

At one of the schools here in Cape Town, it's costing matriculants R400 per head for the dance, then there's their garb, and then R100 for a ticket to the after-party, per head. And it all turns out to be as overrated as New Year's Eve. Back in my day (yes, yes, I said it again), we would never have taken it lying down.

My parents had it easy, in retrospect.

I had to deal with two twelve year old girls high on life last night while trying to watch the soccer. Cramming for an important exam is easier on the mind than those two. Imagine when they are high on sugar!

Miss Bokkie, where'd you go?!

2009-06-17T09:02:00.003+02:00

Talk about a welcome public holiday! If there was something I needed more than anything, it was to sit at home and do nothing, if you don't count the run around the Common and Caz's driving lesson. I'm surprised I'm not dying of a cold after this weekend.

The game between Western Province and the British and Irish Lions at Newlands was awesome. We got there an hour before the game, ducking from tree to tree to avoid the rain on the way to the stadium. We got a little lost finding the pub, but thanks to the help of security, we found our way. There was time for one drink, and off to find our seats, on the other side of the stadium.

As we got to our seats, the rained miraculously ceased. The seats were awful, adjacent to the try-line. But at least we had the dancing girls for company. Those girls must have been freezing in their skimpy little revealing t-shirts and even skimpier hot-pants, but they never showed it. The crowd around us was appreciative of their presence and their moves had a few of the ouens literally drooling, with the game a mere distraction.

It was a close game at half-time, albeit it had been all Lions, in my opinion. Off to the pub then, to get out of the biting wind and to get something to numb the pain. The second half was a nail-biter and could have gone either way. The dancing girls had moved to the other try-line, so I got to watch more of the game (hilarious how everyone around us came back to their seats and immediately inquired where the girls had gone). Unfortunately, a late Stephen Jones penalty sealed it for the tourists. I refused to chant any of the Province songs because, well, let me put it this way. Had it not been for the cold, I would have donned me Sharks jersey. Mind, I would have been less popular than the Lions supporters.

Game over, so off to Springboks for a beer and a tequila, anything to warm us up just that bit. The place was packed, so we milled around the cigarette machine for a couple of rounds before we realised there was a bigger party at the back where some one-man band was playing. Off we went, only to walk into a sea of red Lions jerseys. What the hell, let's crash the whole damn thing.

We found ourselves a spot on top of a table, near the 'sheiks', who were having a ball of a time. While perched on the table, I invited over a girl dressed in a Bok jersey, an anomaly in that crowd. Her name escapes me, but she was awesome at down-downs. After his incessant bitching and hassling my potential score, I managed to find King Arthur a promotion girl to entertain him. Needless to say, he fumbled it.

In the process of laughing at King A, Miss Bokkie disappeared somewhere. Not happy. We finally decided to disembark from the table and head home. On our way to the car, the heavens open up. We were all soaking wet by the time we got to the car, right down to our fifth layers of clothing.

When we got to Mini Cooper's place, the heater and the vodka came out. The bottle of Absolut stood little chance against three of us, and after it's demise, we decided it was still early days. Off to Mel's to crash a 21st. I thought we were still in decent form, but in hindsight, well...

We were onto our second drink, when unprovoked, Mini toppled off his barstool and knocked his head on the ground. He got up as if nothing had happened, only for King A to point out the blood on his barnet. Cue a rush to the bathroom to get him all cleaned up. That pretty much sobered us up, and we decided enough was enough. After dropping them off at Mini's place, it was around the corner to call it a night at 22h30.

Bless, because I woke up sans hangover and took Caz for a driving lesson and lunch at Spur. I got home and the household decided to invite a few peeps over for supper, who proceeded to bring over more wine than was necessary. Everyone felt compelled to fill up my glass every time it was half empty (not half full). I was too absorbed by the football to notice where this was going.

Sunday night dinner parties have been banned. Monday was the worst day of my life. I'm only glad the recovery is complete, and hope there is no permanent damage to the liver.

down in the dumps...

2009-06-15T12:22:00.002+02:00

Blogging not possible...

Results of a run-in with boxed red wine...

the tyranny of a few...

2009-06-12T08:26:00.004+02:00

I spent a year at my old crib without exchanging more than pleasantries with my neighbors. A slap on the face to those that preach about the friendliness of the people of Cape Town.

A week into my new place, and I know my neighbors to my left and centre. Given, to my left I have a couple of lesbians, ditto to my 10 o'clock (they seem to follow me around!). Yesterday, I had a long chat until it got dark with the couple across the road.

We had a long chinwag about the many pleasures of the area and the few pitfalls, like, kinda getting hijacked (an old man down the road six weeks ago). They've invited us for a braai on a weekend when the weather is more favorable.

Then I went through the indignity of being kicked out of one of my watering holes for bringing about bad karma. The Proteas were busy chasing England's total in their T20 World Cup match, and some people at Fat Cactus, patrons and staff, had money on the game. I didn't agree with their predicted winning margins, and with every over, I was being proven right. So they turned on me. Bunch of tyrants.

Luckily I wasn't there for a long stay, but to Blueteeth S2e his favorite song he had been badgering me to download for him for like, forever. He was like a little kid on Christmas morning when he got the song. He has no problem downloading porn on his phone (Caz tells me some of it is somewhat disturbing), but he can't download a 4 MB song.

Very amped for the ruggers at Newlands tomorrow. Maybe I should call off tonight's shindig and go all out tomorrow.

my name is earl...

2009-06-11T16:10:00.003+02:00

So I'm walkabouts in Kenilworth Centre, on my way to CNA to buy the new Spud book, when my train of thought is interrupted by, "Excuse me sir. Would you like to donate R1 to the Children's Home for blah blah blah blah..."

I'm thinking, did he say "sir"?!

So I head over to the offender, a PFY (Pimply Faced Youth) manning a stand.

Me: Did you call me "sir"?

PFY: Yes sir. How would you like to make a donation to the Children's Home...

Me: ...Hold that thought. What makes you feel you should call me sir?

PFY: Sorry sir, it just came out.

I'm was in a rather chipper mood after some breakthroughs on the world of FreeRadius at work. When I'm in a good mood, my tongue loosens up.

Me: That's what you say to your girlfriend when you orgasm too quickly.

PFY: [blushes] snigger...

Me: Is it my age?

PFY: No sir, it was unintentional. But you can make a donation to the Children's Home for the Abused. It's only R1.

Me: Tell you what, I'll give you R5 if you quit calling me sir.

PFY: Sure sir.

Me: You want to try that again?

PFY: Sure. Thank you.

Me: That's better. So, where is this home?

PFY: In Cape Town.

Me: Duh. But where in Cape Town?

PFY: I don't know.

Me: [Raised eyebrow].

PFY: It's my second day here. I just came from George.

I insert my R5 into the coin box.

PFY: Thank you. You are one of the few people with a good heart.

The kid must have had a tough day out here. Probably hasn't heard of something called a recession.

Me: Really? I'm going to Google your Children's Home to make sure it is legit. If not, I'll be back.

PFY: Thank you, sir.

I could have kicked that kid. If I wasn't hanging around with people older than me as often as I do, I would have taken offense to that kid addressing me as sir. I just walked away, opposite direction to the CNA, having forgotten the reason I was there in the first place.

I got a measly little sticker smaller than the buttons on my shirt for my R5. But I suppose I bought myself some good karma for a bit. So says Earl.

P.S. I couldn't find the home on Google.

lounging around...

2009-06-10T08:25:00.004+02:00

We found this funky little spot last night called Cybar out in the "student burb", more commonly known as Rondebosch Main Road. It's the perfect kind of lounge; cozy, comfortable, the right amount of lighting, and as far as I can tell, cool people as well. We didn't stay long enough to get the full lowdown, but the talent was getting better and better (or it was the Jagger).

I forfeited my torturous lap around the Common (and the opportunity to see someone else run-over) to see what the place was about, and the R-tards and I were impressed. The food is very reasonably priced, with snacks dominating the menu. Most importantly, they have happy hours that suit my hours, and we've made a date to pop in on Friday.

Caz has it all worked out, as well as "setting me up" with someone after my dance routine with J rather fizzled out this week, there's also a trip to the Old Biscuit Mill to a club called Deco Dance thrown in. Did a bit of Googling, and the place sounds rad to me. 80's nights? Lesbians? All of a sardine, I'm amped!

Thankfully there wasn't a repeat of last Tuesday from the three of us when "one or two" got a little out of hand, and the Jaggermeister was the needed tonic for the stomach ache that had dogged me since Monday evening.

I've been afforded the opportunity to go see the Western Province game against the British and Irish Lions on Saturday at Newlands. I was a bit hesitant at first; I mean, who wants to go see the Province play? But then I have been bemoaning the poor attendances during this Lions tour, so I thought let me do my part. And it's free. Who says no to free tickets? Just don't expect me to be bellowing Prrroooooooviiiiiiiiiiiiiiince!!! with the rest of the die-hards who have been through so much agony this year.

And the good news is we have a bye in our rugby calendar this weekend. I don't have to pipe up with some lame excuse again. There are so many times I can get injured playing touch rugby.

roads to hell

2009-06-09T08:13:00.003+02:00

My dad had a dream I set our pozi alight with my mom in the house. Seriously? There was the incident with garage when I was young, but there was no malice to it. I'm not capable of arson, although I have to admit, I have always been fascinated by pyrotechnics.

I'm getting a little fed up by the horrible roads in Cape Town. The roads to Transkei are in better shape. Some of the roads have been recently dug up for one or another reason, but then they've been poorly covered up with soil. In case anybody from the City Council is reading this, I'm referring to Durban and Sawkins Road in Mowbray, Campground Road in Claremont, right next to Sahara Park, and Keurboom Road, on two different locations.

Then there are the potholes. These mothers look like an earthquake has done a number on them. I'm especially referring to the ones on Garfield Road in Kenilworth. They could lead to the core of the earth by the look of things. Durban Road is again in the mix, with what looks like the aftermath of an altercation between the road and a jackhammer.

The problem is, these roads have been in the dire condition they are in for what seems like forever. Don't the upper echelon of the Council drive their Mercs on the same roads? CT roads are getting a little heavy on my shock absorbers. I could try to avoid using these roads, but they are my shortcuts to work, gym, home, or my watering holes? Petrol isn't cheap, you know. Nor are shock absorbers.

I think I should start drafting my scathing letter to the Council or our Minister of Transport, whatshisface. Attach my invoice from Supa Quick while I'm at it.

rain, so what?

2009-06-08T08:15:00.005+02:00

I had a dream I was being chased by a bull last night after I hassled it's calf. I used every evasion tactic in the book, until I got paralyzed and couldn't move anymore. The bull was about to met out it's punishment when I forced myself awake. My dream wasn't too bad compared to Caz's, who dreamt she lost her nipple the other night. She had a nipple stand and it fell right off and started bouncing away.

The big dance-off didn't happen on Friday. It was postponed for Saturday, but I had other engagements I had to attend to. On Friday I went to E.T's braai all the way in Bergvliet. This wasn't any braai. This effort was underdoors. Yes, under, not indoors. E.T set up an improvised braai area because it was pissing with rain. But a little foul weather has never stopped South Africans from whipping out the 'ol Weber. I have no idea where the doors came from, but 10/10 for effort. There were a few of us I.T geeks there, and the instructions were BYOB. Bring Your Own Bandwidth.

It was great fun though. I finally got to meet E.T's girlfriend, whom I was fearing was a figment of his imagination. Or a blowup doll. My money was on a blowup doll. There were some cool peeps there, besides myself of course. I met a couple of girls who play for a girl band, Ripcords, or summat. I got the lead singer's digits, but she may be lesbian.

I avoided the margaritas like they were the ebola virus; I was strictly on Savanna Lites, driving and all. One thing they don't do, the Savannas, is lift one's mood. I had three the whole night, and I ran out of steam at 11pm, at which point I bailed. A wise decision, as the after-action report detailed the debauchery I would have no doubt been involved in had I stayed.

On Saturday I ventured to Hemisphere with Mini Driver for his birthday party. Things started off with vodka shots at his place, and since neither of us were driving, the short ones didn't stop there. Being with an older crowd than we are used to, we were quite conservative to begin with. Then we found the dance-floor. It was nice and dark, and a great place for our misdemeanor.

In-between agitating the floorboards and tequila at the bar, we managed to bag some digits. I have no intention of calling the girl, but I wasn't going to be outdone by the birthday boy, not even on his day. I crawled into bed after a nice chicken and mayonnaise sandwich from the Shell garage. It sorted me out one time.

I took Caz for a driving lesson yesterday. It was harrowing at times, especially for the poor guy on the scooter she almost mowed down in the parking lot of Kenilworth Centre. You should have seen his eyes; dinner plates! Nonetheless, she was chuffed of her first driving experience. Some people may scoff at the idea of putting another woman behind the wheel, but the way I see it, it's another designated driver.

It's back to rugby this week... eish. A dentist's appointment doesn't seem so bad in comparison. At least the sun is shining again, which is pretty useless if it's during the week.

just when things were looking up...

2009-06-05T08:57:00.003+02:00

I have a gripe I've GOT to air this A.M. I know I was singing, or more like humming, the praises of the boys in blue. Well, strike that. The other day I had just completed a lap around the Rondebosch Common when some poor bloke got himself run over. From where I was standing (against a pole for support since I could not hold my own weight anymore), it looked serious. I was inclined to go help, but there were slevin chiefs at the scene chop-chop. No need to crowd the poor bloke.

The lady that ran the dude over was in hysterics on the phone, presumably trying to summon some indians. After five minutes of watching the scene unravel, I did a bit of a stretch and was ready to go. I mean, if the cops have been summoned, the rest will be taken care of. Besides, I was in bad need of a shower.

After a prolonged spell of R & R (I had just been given a painful reminder that I have a liver), I was ready to go when I noted another ten minutes had passed and not a siren in earshot. I was about to put a call through when a siren suddenly broke the monotony of the traffic noise and a van spun around the corner. Slaapstad time, huh? Then presto, six more vans pitch up in the next five minutes, making the already challenging traffic situation almost impossible by blocking the road. Idiotic.

It was all good and well that the cops were there, but what of an ambulance? The bloke has been lying there for some twenty-five minutes. Some fella then pulled up next to me in one of those soccer mom Renaults, and runs over to the scene. I'm guessing he was a doctor because he went over to examine the victim after much debate with the boys in blue.

I thought if this guy is still alive, he owes it to himself to hang on a little longer. Still no ambulance siren. I've began a new set of stretches now, and taking a browse at tonight.co.za's TV guide wondering if there's anything worth numbing my brain over later on. The cops have realised they're a traffic hinderance and are moving their vans out of the way and, gasp-shock-horror, are directing traffic.

I've gone off on a tangent now and am checking out other sites, and I get woken up by the sound of an ambulance siren. Out of the blue, 35 minutes later, we have a... fire truck... There's no fire I was aware of on the scene, but I suppose those cats know a thing or two about first aid, so it was better than nothing. Of course, they completely block traffic, and I had better things to do than watch this ridiculous scene.

I had long lost site of the lad who was taken out by the green Toyota Conquest, I sure hope he made it. But it is ridiculous that it took 35 minutes for any sort of medical aid to arrive on the scene. Considering the area is surrounded by hospitals, all of them within ten minutes drive, at a stretch, it was appalling. And the boys in blue handled the situation so atrociously, I was embarrassed for them.

I sure hope to stay clear of any accidents in the near future, or I may be toast.

Hitler's Reaction to Bulls Victory

2009-06-04T11:04:00.002+02:00

feeling blue bull...

2009-06-01T09:02:00.002+02:00

The rugby fraternity of the country must be feeling pretty blue. Not just because of the hangover from celebrating, but because the Blue Bulls were fantastic. I had a great time watching the game, and not just because of the entertainment value of the showpiece.

I watched the game at Oblivion with J, and it was a fantastic jol. We got there an hour and a half before the game began, but that flew by very quickly. We didn't care that it was so full and we had to make do with seats on the window seal, which were plush compared to the guys plumped on the floor directly underneath the big screen. The game itself was a carnival, pity J had to go off and work afterwards.

The whole weekend was just party mode. I was supposed to stay at home on Friday, but after I sorted my women issues, I ventured out with Damage and Damagelina. I ended up at Cubana after dropping them off where I partied with CC and the Dancing Girls. The Girls made quite the impression on the dance-floor. I took the time to show them a move or two to use at their dance classes. We've got a date set for Friday on the dance-floor again; eish wena!

I crawled home for my last sleep at the old place at 05h30, was asleep some 3 hours before Dru intervened to help me move. Lacking sleep and energy, we spent the next 4 hours moving my stuff, and I spent another 2 hours unpacking it. Needless to say, I have been in my chops.

As if things hadn't been eventful enough, on my first night at my new place, they broke into my car. I came home pretty late, and I was too lazy to park the car inside. I won't be doing that again. I wasn't too upset, in retrospect. I got the window replaced yesterday, and my access was zilch (!). There was nothing to steal in Betty, anyhew. So all's well ends well.

The cops are also quite jacked up nowadays. I got a call last night from the Victims Unit. The lady asked how I was feeling about the break in, whether I had any anger issues, and crap like that. It's not like I was mugged at gunpoint, but the effort was appreciated anyway.

I was hoping to close the deal with J, but things never go as planned in life. I'll try get something sorted tomorrow.

i can eat what i want and i don't look like a twat...

2009-05-29T09:32:00.000+02:00

I saw some twat yesterday driving around with one of those surgical masks on, in fear of swine flu. He looked like what he is, a twat. Pity really, he was driving a really nice car. A pimped out Mini Cooper. Imagine how other people must feel when he's sitting amongst them with that thing on, like they're dirty or something.

I've got a theory about all these diseases and viruses, like flu, ebola and babies. If you're meant to get them, you're meant to get them. Bless, no reason why a dude can't protect himself, like with condoms. I'm just saying the dude looked silly. But I'm sure that's what some other character thought way back when they introduced condoms. "Look at this thing on my johnson, it looks ridiculous." At which point he probably took it off and got himself some STD, or worse, offspring.

The dude with the surgical mask reminds me of everyone who keeps on telling me what to eat and what not to eat. Everyone is conscious of what they chow nowadays because of what some Dr. Nutritionist tells them on Oprah. I've got three problems with all this advice; non of the products I'm told to eat taste any decent, non of it is meat, and t'boot, I'll probably outlive 'em all (The Big Guy permitting). I'm no ignoramus of course, eating bloody well anything. But there are two chances of me staying away from meat, and they both aren't good.

And everybody has been on a big wank about how cows are the biggest polluters with their farts for the past few years. And some tree hugging knuckleheads started a campaign to stop cows farting. They don't mention how they plan to achieve that on their website, but I've heard of some Japanese boffins stumbled upon some fong-kong food additives that suppress the methane production in a cow's stomach. The lot want to turn us all into vegans eating gravel.

I'm ranting. I'm moving house again, the nomad that I am. I'm moving a lot closer to the trouble makers. The likes of the R-Tards, CC, the Skanks, Damages and Mini Driver are a walk away in either four points of the compass. And of course I'll be staying with Coffee, which should be interesting. Which ends my lesbian experience. The experience of living with lesbians, in case you were confuzzled.

I'm moving further from work, to little Mowbray, which means I can genuinely bitch about traffic now. I missed that, you know. Like at a party when you run out of conversation chatting to a stranger, I can use traffic now without the danger of being caught on a lie. I've done so much moving it's a breeze for me, whereas the lesbos were camping it up.

It's going to be a rather busy day tomorrow, considering the date with J afterwards. Good times.

girls, girls, girls...

2009-05-28T08:10:00.000+02:00

I suppose I have to explain my week's absence from blogging. It starts with a girl and ends with a girl. Doesn't it always? Women, can't live with 'em, can't kill 'em, eh? I've had my head in for virtually a week, and I have a couple of days to sort myself out.

Before things started snowballing, there was, or is, this long distance thing I'm involved in. It's a drag, it was a bad idea, and my phone bill must be two grand plus. I like the girl, but the soonest we'll see each other is October, which is too long for any self-respecting dude.

Then it was this older chick. She's something of a regular at Mel's Kitchen, so I'm told. I popped around there to catch a glimpse of the infamous promo girls and a sample of the Grolsch they were promoting last Wednesday. One beer led to four and a couple of vodka shots, and the next thing I know, we've moved from conversing about jazz music to fully making out. At the bar. In full view of gramps and grandma at the table behind us.

That added a layer of complication to my life I needed like a fart in a spacesuit. Now, I'm not just trying to find a way to break off the long distance business, I first have to find a way to tell her I've been playing games on someone else's home ground. The consensus is I should use my away form as a reason to break it off, but that would be cowardice of me. I'm not sort, in a sense. Which means, like the taste of tequila, this long distance thing is going to last a while.

As if the trifle didn't have enough layers, on comes the custard (yummmm...). The thing with J reignited like a Table Mountain summer runaway fire. I was on my way out of Oblivion, when there she was, at the door, head tilting, Bambi eyes, and that smile, all laying it on me before she asked me to stay a while longer. There wasn't a single bone in my body, including the very prominent one, that didn't want to stay. Who am I argue to with my bones?

As predictable as a Julius Malema brain-fart, things got out of hand after that. All I know is we are going away next week, somewhere. Not sure when I agreed to this, but there you are. I shouldn't listen to those bones of mine, specifically the one that seems to make all the noises at times like those. What is a guy to do? There's also our date on Saturday. During the Super 14 Final. She may be a Bulls supporter.

To dumb it down, I have to tell one girl of my promiscuity, then break up with her, on a separate day, and close the deal with the other. All this must be done by Saturday night. No pressure.

sweet dreams?

2009-05-27T08:20:00.000+02:00

Right! So it's been a bleeding week since my last post, but it seems like forever, really. Such a lot has happened, but I don't have the time to go for a long boring tale. It's better off when it's short and sweet. Well, short anyhew. It's not always sweet. More tequila. Sometimes. But I digress.

I've had a couple of disturbing dreams lately. Not the go see the head doctor type, but those you wake up and think "Huh? What was that all about?"

The first involved Ronaldinho. There I was driving with a couple of mates from the airport with "buck-teeth" stuffed in my trunk, when we pulled over and the Brazilian hopped in and took over the steering. He seemed to know his way around Cape Town pretty well, so we refrained from directing him. Then he took a corner too sharply in the Mont, we all bailed out, and Betty crashed in front of a cop block. Because he was, well, Ronaldinho, here for the Confederations Cup and all (although there aren't any Confed Cup games in CT), they let him off the hook. So we all sneaked on the car again around the corner, and off we went to the Holiday Inn where he was doing an interview. I knocked over a few Johnny Walkers onto the carpet, much to our amusement.

The second one occurred last night, right after I had awoken from an E-TV soft-porn-esque effort, and I think I know the person who was in the dream with me. Anyhew, in the dream, I was playing cricket against the Aussie team with the Waughs, Warne, Allan Border et al. First I ran out Tim May (I think it was) and was about to bowl to Michael Bevan, when I thought, "Hang on a blimey minute!"

I may have been upset at digressing from an R rated dream to Bevan flicking me over square-leg. I didn't catch another wink after that, instead I listened to some crappy 5FM DJ obviously on too much caffeine to keep him up at that horrible hour. He should try my dreams, they work a treat. I just have to figure out who the co-star of my erotic dream was (which could explain why it never reached it's climax), and why I have one of my girl mates intruding on my dreams instead of Carla Ossa.

I have a date with J on Saturday (who was not in my dream, incidentally), which should be interesting. The timing is rotten, really. I put off my comeback to rugby just for that, instead of rescheduling it. That prompted a mate to think I'm addicted to this broad. I guess I am, and who would blame me? She's a looker! Perhaps on the young side, but morality is a quality I can ill-afford right now. You would understand if you saw the smile on that face.

Any road, Chumps League Final tonight. I have to find a venue to cheer on Barcelona. It's been a horrible year for any side I have supported this year. Maybe I should switch allegiance to ManUre then. Or not...

party tricks...

2009-05-23T08:28:00.001+02:00

Have you ever been out with somebody, and you two just hit it off. Both of you have cool dance moves, hit on similar chicks, AND, he lets you hit on his sister. yeah, it's a guy!

Party M. and I defected to the Toiger during the skanks birthday at 91 On Main, and we had a PARTY!

Yes, I went to Tiger and had fun. Go figure. Oh, BTW, 91 On Main sucks. Everyone is pretending to be somebody they aren't, and older crowd my ass!

Oh, and the Unicorn. I was so close! Fair wnough, I got her very drunk,but what is a guy to do?

to dress up or dress down?

2009-05-20T11:08:00.002+02:00

I'm starting to have a gripe with all these dress-up parties. The Skanks are doing a luminescent theme for their 23rd, but also want to hit the Mont afterwards. 91 On Main and Tiger, to be specific. I'm not a fan of looking ridiculous in public. If it had been a private event, sure. I would even wear spandex for all I care.

White people love to dress up, while we darkies prefer to dress down. We like to look classy. I bet the only reason them farmers wear all that khaki was because some Boer back in the day decided to take the piss and wear veldskoene, tall socks, shorts pulled up to his belly, a shirt large enough to cover his boep, and that silly hat, all in matching khaki. In the blazing African heat. The rest of the sods caught on unfortunately, and haven't let go to date.

Those bearded mormons aren't far behind either. I don't get what the deal is with all these dress-up parties. I'll keep my effort to a minimum, to appease the Skanks.

I took the R-tards to Caz's dress fitting, for her dance that's coming up. I can't wait to see S2e in a suit/tuxedo. He's more a jeans guy, which linger well below his waistline. I see this trend mainly with white kids nowadays, whereas back in my day, it was us darkies with our pants falling down and the whiteys raising their eyebrows. How times have changed.

S2e would look more in character dressed in Caz's underthings, because well, he's S2e. When I pulled up dressed in long heels, stockings, and a skirt for a party, well, nobody has forgiven me for that transgression. I still get asked which corner of the Wynberg Main Road I will be patrolling for the night. Whereas with S2e, everyone will laugh and wonder what he will do next.

Just saying...

Bastard Operator From Hell

2009-05-19T12:11:00.003+02:00

I hate meetings. I've never minded them before, but nowadays, they seem to be a blame game or a chance for someone to take credit for something you did for them out of goodwill. The smarmy little shit came to YOUR desk, sob story handy about some deadline, and how he/she would appreciate your help.

So like an idiot, you took the time out of your busy day (I can't even find time to Facebook anymore), lent a helping hand, and everything was rosy. It's not like I was expecting the credit, but don't go and claim it as your original work or idea. Then the cretin sits there with a cretinous smirk on his face while he/she gets the pat on the back from authority, that smirk that says "I fucked you over, get over it."

I'll think of that sometimes. If it didn't work of course, the blame gets piled on you like a fresh, steaming pile of cow dung. Office polishit...

I miss the days when I had a bit of a mischievous streak to my charming personality. I would have found something most rewarding for this behavior, like the good 'ol canned fish left to rot under his passenger seat. Or the stink-bomb delicately stuck in the driver's seat so the driver sits on it before noticing it, and having to endure with odor. "Don't fuck with me" used to be my motto for a year or so, and I also had an assortment of "Your mother..." jokes as backup.

I should take lessons from the Bastard Operator From Hell (BOFH). Read some of his posts, and you'll think twice about harassing the IT "geeks" again. The guy is becoming something of a cult hero around the office.

flew like a butterfly, stung by a bee...

2009-05-18T12:29:00.002+02:00

I got shanked by a bee. How so small a creature can cause so much pain is beyond me, but there you have it. The mofo had me on the brink of tears. I haven't been subjected to so much pain in a while, but before I sound like a girl, let's stop right there and harden the fuck up. I can take solace in the little fucker being dead, while I live to tell the tale, swollen hand and all.

It's occurred to me how Sundays just aren't so sacred around Cape Town anymore. You go to Camps Bay, Gugulethu, Town or even Primi in Claremont, and peeps are drinking up a storm instead of heading for church. I'm getting worried about the drinking culture in Slaapstad.

If you are a Sharks or ManUre supporter, you had a reason to drink, for varying reasons. The Sharks would be mourning the capitulation of what seemed like a certain Super 14 title, while the Mancs would be celebrating an 18th league title. The bastards. I've been practicing my evasion tactics, trying to keep out of the United supporter's way. Last thing I need is to hear them gloat. At least the Stormers guys have nothing whatsoever to boast about.

I have much regret about hitting Le Tigre on Saturday, because there are two things consistent with a visit to the joint; inebriation, memory loss, and a deep craving for food afterwards. Some of us never learn, because we keep going back time after time.

This weekend is the Drowser's birthday party. If anything, it will be interesting. I'm supposed to wear something luminescent. Where am I supposed to find something like that? I don't know any parking attendants.

raise the tempo...

2009-05-15T11:05:00.004+02:00

I went to see David Newton last night at the BMW Pavilion at the Waterfront. Funny guy, that. It was actually a Lexmark Roadshow, but I suppose Lexmark caught on that nobody wants to sit and listen to somebody drone on about printers for a couple of hours, so Newton was the drawcard. Clever on you. I was really there for the free chow, which didn't disappoint. When has chicken ever been a disappointment. Even the burnt chicken at Coffee's braai (after removing the skin).

It might be just me, but people seem to get excited by very little nowadays. I must have been asked twenty times (and counting) whether I have watched the new Wolverine movie, which I have not. I've got it on my PC, so today being BMW, I'll give it the once over when I get home. Last week, there was a lot of rah-rah about some new joint that opened in the Mont. I mean, a club is a club, distinguished only by the music and the crowd it attracts. There was the Coke Fest, which has become an annual disappointment, just by listening to the attendees' reviews.

Maybe I'm not so impressionable anymore. So let's see what would excite me. The IPL had it's moments early on, but it became a downright drag very quickly. In fact, by the time I watched my first live game in East London, I was sick of it (if I hear another commentator say "DFL Maximum" again, I'm going to lose it). I would be excited about another trip to Frranschoek, but this time to tour their wine route. A trip down any decent wine route would raise my heart beat a tad. Not even the gym really gets it going. My heart beat before exercise is around 70 bpm, and goes up to the late 80s afterwards.

The irony is, life was a lot more exciting during my week and a half in East London! It's going to be difficult trying to make things interesting with Cape Town's notorious rain at it as is the case at the moment.

I can always get creative...

Zuma in Full Flight

2009-05-13T15:44:00.002+02:00

de la rey, de la rey!!!

2009-05-11T22:18:00.001+02:00

I've barely made it out of the weekend in one piece. I'm still in recovery mode; lots of water and small but frequent meals.

The best part had to be the boerewors curtain on Saturday. I ventured with The R-tard to a place called Dungeons in Durbanville. Sounds dodge, right? Not quite. It was the normal Afrikaans kind of pub, brandy and coke, boeremusik, langarm and all.

We struggled through one platter which was free, and a meat platter for 6. I admitted defeat before my stomach burst open. Cue the Jaggers. I was hitting the Hunters pretty hard, and I had to fill in my name and number for some competition each time I was served one. I remember at one stage thinking the rate I was going through my drinks could for once win me something.

Imagine my surprise when I first heard my name over the PA system. There was enough noise around for me to think I was hearing things. Then I hear my name a second time, and now I know what I heard. But I'm hesitant to respond in case I'm admitting to some crime. The PA shouts the name a last time, and the lightbulb goes on. I jumoed up and waved my hands like a crazy mofo and screamed best I could manage, and next thing I know, I'm on the stage, probably with that goofy smile I sport when I'm placed on the spotlight with an audience in front of me.

The dude started rambling on in Afrikaans, so I just nodded and mumbled something, praying he would handover the prize and get this over with. Then he sticks the microphone in my face, and I was thinking "Stuff the prize, I'm outta here." That's when he caught on that my Afrikaans was limited, at best, and withdrew the microphone, to my relief. By now, my cronies had their heads in their hands or laughing themselves off their chairs.

Eventually, the dude handed over my winnings, which was a small Coca-Cola cooler bag, with a beach towel stuffed inside, a coke can radio, and a pair of brrrrr sunglasses (the glasses broke when I dropped them on a carpeted floor the next morning). After one more drink, we called it quits and headed home.

All this was preceeded by our rugby game in Franschoek, of course. The place is one of them small dorpies surrounded by vinyards. There's not much life there, so the peeps just drink and shag. We couldn't find a shop to buy grub, but we found four bottle stores. After driving the 100km there, I spent the game gathering splinters on the bench, and was only called upon with 2 minutes left on the clock. I was pretty peeved, to be honest. But because of Friday night's events, I was also relieved. Which brings me to Friday night.

Since I was on the bench on Saturday, I figured a few cold 'uns wouldn't hurt. A few landed me in town with Lopez, and a tequila later, we were at Oblivion (I knew J doesn't work Fridays, so I was pretty safe). Oblivion wasn't hitting the right notes, so we picked up The R-tards, and that was the last thing I remember of Friday night.

That would be the ingredients of a heavy weekend for some people, but there's more. The Cullert and I ventured to Coffee's braai, hoping to maje the E-TV 8pm movie. Who were we kidding? Things started off quietly enough to give us hope, I was just drinking Coke. Fast forward four hours, and we haven't eaten yet, and the brandy pours are measured with four fingers. Finally, we tuck into the chow, except for the burnt chicken.

We're so full, we're losening our belts and burping constantly, and this is the time Coffee reckons he should introduce the brandy shots. The wily fucker knows he isn't working Monday morning, but four brandy shots later, we evac'd home at 22:30.

I woke up sans a hangover, but I felt like I had cotton wool in my mouth. Now I have to focus on getting back into the 1st XV for the big game vs. Milnerton, who are breating down our necks at the top of the log.

what is the meaning of life?

2009-05-08T11:53:00.003+02:00

I'm having a ball dealing with the evening weather at the moment in Cape Town. It's fogging up deluxe, and not just at the docks, as is usually the case. The fog is reaching far inland. It's not the driving, or the stinging cold that I'm having fun with. It's rugby practices. We can't see the guy 10 meters in front of us, but we're supposed to perform our drills and practice our moves as if it was a clear night out. The up and unders drill was quite tricky, it was like catching wet bars of soap out there.

For the first time in my entire life, I have cracked the 70 kg barrier. Between 2001 and now, my weight has fluctuated between 66 kg and 69 kg. I weighted myself on Wednesday, and I was sitting pretty at 70,43 kg. Cue a little jig on the scale and some puzzled frowns from the guys in the steam room (most of them were puzzled, one of them was grinning).

Back in February, I bumped into an article claiming there was a Google killer out there. I balked, but out of interest, and boredom, I suppose, I clicked on the link to check this out. I've been following it's progress closely enough, and it is set to debut publicly later in the month.

What Wolfram Alpha is a knowledge engine you can ask factual questions and it will compute answers for you. The difference between Wolfram Alpha and Google is Google is good at finding information that has already been put down somewhere, or answering questions that have already been asked and answered. Wolfram Alpha can answer questions that have never been asked, provided the data to create the answer exists in it's corpus of facts and figures.

Pretty cool, me thinks. Can't wait to give it a run. I wonder if it can answer the question of the meaning of life.

watch your mouth, son...

2009-05-06T11:55:00.004+02:00

Life is full of ironies, isn't it? One I am not too fond of at the moment regards women. You can be damn sure that if two beautiful women come into a man's life, it will be at the same time. So what is a guy to do? How does one choose? A list of pros and cons doesn't have the conviction to sway one's mind. Nor does reason or common sense, oddly enough. Not even the brain vs. the penis battle settles it. One has to leave it to the gods, I guess, or let the scenario play itself out.

I've decided to think again before calling people names on the blog. I read a story way back in January of a dude named Duane Brady, who left a bunch of defamatory messages on the wall of his wife's friend on Facebook. The Brady character was reported to the boys in blue, and landed himself in court facing charges of crimen injuria (huh???) and common assault.

If, like me, you are wondering what the hell crimen injuria is, according to ever-reliable Wikipedia, it is defined to be the act of "unlawfully, intentionally and seriously impairing the dignity of another." I don't know the fate of the man, but things aren't looking up for him. Be warned angry Facebook regulars, word your posts carefully. This is why people use aliases on the internet.

People are trying hard to ruin my good looks. I got a nice head-butt during practice on the piehole, biting my lip in the process. It's already suffered two through-and-through bites in my lifetime, and now it's swollen a bit. Like Ricky Hatton I suppose, after Manny Pacquiao got hold of him.

what was the fuss all about?

2009-05-05T11:35:00.003+02:00

So what was all the fuss about? I can hardly tell the difference between the old jersey and this one. I bet if the Boks had run out in this jersey tomorrow, nobody would have been the wiser.

The problem is, at R1050, throw in a Lions Test ticket, and you have to visit uMatshonisa (loan shark). Then a month later, of course, there's a big burly dude with a baseball bat knocking at your door...

helter skelter...

2009-05-04T08:32:00.004+02:00

I've surprisingly recovered well from my holiday. I'm back at work and hardly missing a beat. Considering how hectic the holiday was, especially the conclusion, I'm really chuffed I've come out better off. Usually, I would need another holiday to recover. I suppose considering how little alcohol was involved, it's understandable.

Friday was especially hectic. We got back from Port St. Johns and headed for the helter skelter that is the IPL. The match was such a letdown though, albeit I feel compelled to reiterate, I underestimated the amount of talented women in East London. I had to keep my awe to myself though, or I would have earned myself a helping of a backslap.

After the cricket, we drove to Cintsa to catch some oysters, which Ryan is very well versed at. We got ourselves a generous portion, headed back to Amanda's place, and whipped up a braai. We sat back and enjoyed some oysters and champagne, watching some horrible rugby being spewed up by the Cheetahs.

I spent Saturday at Amanda's, pretty much saying our goodbyes. I hate goodbyes, I really do. This one lasted a whole day, to make it worse. The parentals weren't chuffed I didn't spend my last day with them, but they must pick their battles better.

It's great to be back in Cape Town, albeit there is a lot I will miss about East London. The Rtards gave me a hearty welcome back yesterday, lunch at Rascals watching the Liverpool game. Cape Town seems to be moving at a thousand miles per hour compared to the Eastern Cape. Once I catch up, I'll be in Slaapstad once again.

all hail the tactical chunder

2009-05-01T09:38:00.001+02:00

Port St. John's turned out to be ok, I suppose. We got there on Wednesday afternoon and tucked into some cold ones after finding some accomodation at a hostel.

We found a really neat restuarant to line our tummies before the ManUre/Arsenal game. We headed for a pub down the road to catch the game, and the atmosphere inside the place was really great.

The bad news was the alcohol was dirt cheap. Ryan was extra amped, and had ordered two rounds of tequilas during the pre-match preamble alone. Early in the first half, ManUre went 1-0 up after a host of chances; tequila! Late in the 1st half, there was a good Arsenal move and shot on goal; tequila!

Half-time studio chat; tequila (because we agreed United should have scored more, foolish of me). After 15 minutes of the 2nd half, Lisa (Amanda's slightly older sister) decides it's been a dull afair; tequila! Arsenal finally make a noteworthy change in personel after 80 minutes, so I decide; tequila! 90 minutes, and it's become obvious Arsenal aren't going to score; tequila! Game over; tequila!

Now we're all pretty much on our trolleys, so common sense would suggest we all go to bed. Nope! Let's go check what was happening at the place next door; tequila! The place is closing up, we are pretty much smashed and it's time for bed if we have any chance of managing a decent climb up a rock; tequila!

Then we realise we're kinda lost, so we head into some restuarant to ask for directions. One of the barmen was very helpful and pointed us in the right direction; tequila!

Finally, we make it to the hostel, and the bar is still open and laden with tourists. Ryan's grin is rather menacing, and we're all still holding up ok, so why not; tequila! Everyone at the bar was in fine fettle, and this one group kept on buying us drinks. One of the girls, who had the sexiest British accent, thought I was an actor.

It's pretty fuzzy what went on afterwards, but I remember taking a tactical chunder before bed. Good on me, I woke up feeling A-ok.

The mountain climbing never happened. Instead, we went shopping and swimming, and the regmaker was pretty much it as far as alcohol was concerned.

It was rise and shine pretty early this morning. I manged to hook us up with tickets for the IPL game in East London today, but before that, we're hoping to get back in time for some oysters in Cintsa. Driving like maniacs, but these are oysters we're talikng about! Maybe tequila!

road trip!

2009-04-29T09:48:00.001+02:00

Finally, we've hit the road to the Transkei. I got my wake-up call at the ungodly hour of 5am, and instructed to start packing. The instructions were null and void considering I never unpacked in the first place. Then it took forever for the girls to get ready and pick me up. In fact, I could have caught fourty winks had I known it would take them this long.

Any road, I've never been on a road trip that went according to schedule. I forgot JP was in Port Alfred, otherwise I would have made a plan. Lovely place that. We used to go there for holidays.

I've given up the search for my book. Had you seen the shed where all our old stuff is kept at home, you would understand.I took one look at that shed and closed the door on that episode. I'm sure it wasn't the greatest piece of writing anyhew, considering I was in Standard 6, or what is known as Grade 8 nowadays.

Right, our trip shouldn't be more than 4 hours. If it is, we're hopelessly lost, and that could make for the theme of a very very scary movie. We all know how the black people always die first in scary movies, and considering I'm the only one...

wash my red hair in milk...

2009-04-28T18:00:00.001+02:00

The most frustrating part about the Eastern Cape is the driving. It's not just that peeps here are kak drivers, it's also the speed they drive at. In East London, you hardly find people hitting 60km/h during working hours. At night, the kids come out to play, and they just exagerate things. Word is, in these parts, vehicular accidents mostly involve youngsters aged 17-22, and are usually fatal.

That's why my heart was in my mouth when my cousin was involved in a accident involving four cars just outside King Williams' Town yesterday. She was pretty shook up, although her car didn't have a scratch. The other fellas weren't so lucky, two of them likely write-offs. The cops at the scene weren't very helpful either. I'm glad she was alright, but there was one question I HAD to pop. How, in the name of all things logical, did she drive all the way from the craziness of Cape Town (you know how the CT drivers get in the rain), to be involved in an accident in KWT (no cameras, and they drive at 40km/h on the main road, I shit you not).

God knows. I thought I would be late for my date with the Redhead from Amanda, what with going through all the beaurecratic BS at the police station. We had planned to go to this nice spot at the Beach Front, but being Freedom Day and all, the staff were taking it literally and the place was shut by 4pm. So we headed to Milky Lane instead, which was quite the nostalgic experience. Good times were spent there during me teen years.

After a session of sucking face in my mom's 4x4, I dropped the Redhead at home. I wasn't going to get busy in my mom's car, hell no. And she stays with her sister, and I'm staying... with my parents.

I've spent the day sprawled on the couch watching a lot of nothing. There's some IPL on at the mo, and I'm watching the Champions League semi later. I'm thinking the pub would be good, or just stay sprawled on the couch.

van dutch, you wanna touch?

2009-04-27T09:39:00.001+02:00

Hold on to your seats, because I'm about to say something I thought would never ever cross my mind. I had a ridonkulous weekend in East London. It was actually off the charts.

I bumped into some boys I knew back in school in Beacon Bay. I was actually lost, running an errand, and I recognised Ryan. We were kind of tight for a while back in the day, opening the batting for the U14Bs, and we shared a record U14 opening partnership in one game of 160 (we were both leggies as well). These boys were kind of geeky back then, and had their own clique going, just like everyone else. Back then, as is now, I didn't care much for cliques, I chilled with anyone I fancied chilling with, no matter how (un)popular they were.

True to form, Ryan is a bit of an IT geek. We had a lot to talk about naturally, so we hooked up later at a house party at his mate's house in Vincent. By the time I got there, just after 9pm, the place was pumping. Naturally, the dudes/birds ratio was lopsided in favour of the penises. I think my dismay was somewhat obvious, what with me voicing my discontent at the lack of boobs in the house constantly.

Luckily Ryan is pretty well connected, and we were off to a farm in the middle of nowhere. The place was in ferment. The problem here wasn't the girls/guys ratio, but the amount of untalented girls that made up the quota of girls. The Red Bull had me pretty observent, which was my staple diet for the night (we stole 5 cases from the house party; old times). Imagine being arrested for DUI in E.L of all places.

The best part of the party wasn't the amount of girls at the scene, no matter how untalented. It was the music. They were playing some fuck-off ridonkulous electro house. There was one song, from the Electro House Verrano Session album, which I've always liked. But with the sound system they had in there, I think I jizzed in my pants at one stage (or it may have been the Red Bull just running through me). I showed the white peeps some moves, grinding on the dancefloor with one betty who lives in JHB.

I took a break to go chill with the boys, who were trowling the outskirts (pun intended) of the dancefloor. Aaahhh, the days I used to be them. Thank goodness to one Saudi Princess for the education.

This is where I met Amanda, who lives in the surburb... Amanda. No jokes. She was one of the most talented on the night, and we got into some serious tongue wagging about my general distaste for the small town life. I certainly got the civil servant from Amanda envious of life under the shadow of the Table Mountain. It turns out she's also a Deadmua5 fan, and then got into a lengthy debate on progressive vs electro house.

As much as I was enjoying the conversation which had lasted all of two hours, I hadn't come all the way to the middle of nowhere for some chit-chat. Turns out she hadn't either, and a rather graphic (I would imagine, for the onlookers) snogging session ensued. The boys broke up what was starting to be an imitation of what must have been on e-TV at the time, and we headed off home. Some bros they are. I got the phone number, and I may have been convinced by a redhead (sort of) to stay in the Eastern Cape another weekend.

I spent yesterday afternoon glued to the TV. I've seen so much of the IPL this weekend, I keep dreaming of white cricket balls flying so fast they're on fire. No work has been done to try find my precious book. I'll have some time during the week when the rentals are at work. I got a date tonight with the redhead from Amanda. I timed it well... payday today, or so I hope.

smooth Day 1

2009-04-24T22:46:00.001+02:00

I made it through my first full day at home, sans argument with the parents. I know one is coming up tomorrow. They are going to try persuade me to attend a relative's funeral, someone I never even met.

The funeral is not the problem, nor is it that it's a stranger's burial. It's the fact that the damn thing is happening in godforsaken Alice, some dirt town. I have plans for Sunday. I'm not sure what they are yet; I have yet to consult the TV guide. I await the ambush.

I decided to look for the book I wrote while in Std. 6/Grade 8. Yeah, I wrote a whole novel, which was much more interesting than Biology or Maths. It wasn't necessarily more important though. Anyway, I'm going to tear the place up tomorrow. What, with all the time on my hands. I'm going to be kept busy juggling the Super 14, IPL and Premier League football as well.

Much to look forward to...

home, at last...

2009-04-23T22:20:00.001+02:00

Aaahhh... so good to be home. Got a sample of mother's finest cooking, although the portions were the equivalent of my skinny days, something that did not get past my mother. She now suspects I'm shacking up with someone, which I vehemently denied.

I gotta admit, I didn't vote yesterday. I had a very large night on the town on Tuesday night, and failed to get up at the planned time. Instead, I was woken up by Happy Print and Beskarig, who were keen for some brekkies. At the time, breakfast was going to do a lot more for me than a vote at the national elections. So I laid my bed. Given my indecision on who to vote for anyway, it might not have been too bad a decision.

After brekkies, I wasn't arsed and bed was the only thing on my head. So be it.

I'm drawing a mental list of to-dos for tomorrow. So far, I've come up with fixing my old bike, and learning how to make umphokoqo.

electile dysfunction

2009-04-21T08:24:00.000+02:00

I seem to be suffering from a serious case of Electile Dysfuntion. That is the inability to be aroused by any of the candidates running for office. That said, it would be folly not to vote. Then I would have no right to complain when JZ wins. Ooops, I guess I let the cat out of the bag a bit. We know who I'm not voting for.

I think it's a waste of time pretending the ANC won't win, anyway. But I'll go through the motions. If you look at the demographics of the country, then do a little math, you should arrive to the conclusion that the ANC will be in power for a while longer. It will make for an interesting few years, that's for sure. Maybe I should draw up a list of complaints so I'm already prepared by the time they confirm the votes were rigg...er, I mean the ANC won. Some peeps want to do a whole communal voting effort, but seeing as there's a station a short walk from my place which is unlikely to be crowded, I don't see the point of travelling a few burbs to make an X on a piece of paper and have some wanker dirty my hands with some ink that won't come off for a while. I'm just saying...

Any road. I'm off to East London this week. Not sure whether I should be excited. Each day will be the same; wake up to catch Cartoon Network with my bro, flip through every movie channel and be dismayed to find the lack of quality flicks on offer. Watch a rerun of some movie, then get my ass hauled off to the farm for some hard labour, and not forgetting the "'motivational" lecture on the way there. Then it's back home to catch some sitcoms while little bro gets chewed off about varsity or something. Again. Good times.

At least my last game before my sojourn east was a good one. We may have lost, but you should have seen my linebreaks! Christian Cullen-esque I tell you. I've been replaying them over and over in my head. Just when I get my shit together...

love/hate Stellies...

2009-04-17T12:33:00.002+02:00

I have a love/hate relationship with Stellenbosch. Love the party scene, hate the town. I'm still undecided on the people, who aren't the most welcoming crowd around. I was there yesterday, not for a party unfortunately.

There I was, admiring the best Stellies has to offer when it comes to the fairer sex, when I got to my car and noticed a ticket on my windscreen. A R500 ticket because my license disc isn't stuck on the window. The damn thing is sitting on the dashboard because the thing fell off two days prior.

The dumb shit still gives me a ticket anyway. At least they aren't sticking it on the driver's window with that glue that can't come off like down here in Cape Town. That stuff is a tell of a recent parking indiscretion. I see it in the traffic all the time and afford myself a little giggle at the unfortunate one.

I was too pissed off yesterday, so fearing being locked up for excessive use of vulgar language towards a traffic official, I tucked my tail between my legs and skulked home. I'll sort it out next week. To prove how unfortunately small this world is, I bumped into an old flame outside Dros. I was always wondering where she had disappeared to, and with her imbalanced mental state in mind, I always presumed the worst. Now my mind is at ease.

Hands up anyone who knows who they're voting for! Anyone?

that will teach me not to back chat...

2009-04-15T15:54:00.002+02:00

Everything happened at rugby practice last night. I was dismayed at how unfit I am, then I kind of lost it after instructions for a drill weren't communicated to some of us, not for the first time, and I threw my toys a little bit at the backline coach. Well, I threw them back after he threw them at me for getting things wrong. Unlike me, really. Then, as Earl would say, karma hit, and I dislocated my left hand's middle finger.

I was actually happy when that ended my practice, because things were pretty awful up to that point. And more importantly, Liverpool and Chelsea were playing, and I got to catch the whole game, which was a beaut. We have a couple of qualified doctors registered as players, so one of them popped it back into place, applied some ice, strapped it, and bingo, I was home. Changing gears was no picnic though.

I went to the doc again this morning, and sure as hell, gave me some pretty good painkillers. Changing gears is uncomfortable, and so is picking up the coffee mug, but it's not unbearable. So I reckon I should play come Saturday.

a mother of a long weekend...

2009-04-14T10:01:00.002+02:00

Fuck me, I feel like shit. My body hurts like hell, and I seem to be sweating alcohol. And waking up this morning just wasn't happening. I literally jumped in and out the shower I was so late for work. This is why I dislike these long weekends, and past experience warned me this would be the consequences of enjoying it a bit much.

So much happened I'm not even sure where to start. I suppose the beginning is as good a place as any. After the braai on Thursday night, I was keen to do something chilled on Good Friday. Lunch at Brass Bell with Caz and S2e was chilled enough. Fair enough, we did get up to some tomfoolery while promoting Ugo Geller to the staff at the Bell, and never mind the pedestrian waving.

Things went befok after I dropped the two of them off. First I was having my last beer of the day with Chrisal, Stef and Earnie, and two hours later, I'm at Villiersdorp trying to find a shebeen to procure booze. I've done my fair share of dodgy places, but this was another level. Never mind that my Afrikaans was better than Dru's (?!), I was more concerned about being knifed in some shanty town doerengone from home.

Any road, we got out safe and sound, sans booze. The only open smokel didn't do take away booze (!). We settled on checking out the Worcester nightlife after dropping our bags off at our destination, which was Dru's parents' cottage in Roostenville at some damn. Worcester reminded me of King Williams' Town, with a few upgrades. Worcester has the upper hand on the nightlife, without a doubt, but that's not saying much.

Dru took us to some spot he had visited on one of his prior trips that side of the Cape. Without setting foot inside, we decided it wasn't adequate for our needs. After pulling over the Dros to get some direction, we were pointed to a pub in some alley. In case you have noticed, I am not leaving out the names of these two fine establishments, it's just that the owners found it unnecessary to embellish their property with insignia. Nor were we given names when asking for directions, just a route.

After a chat with the cops, we eventually found this alleyway pub. The place was something special, really. The inhabitants were typical farming town inbreeds. The barman had the personality of a doorstop, but at least he could work out that the Hunters Dry were going at R10 each, although when we added vodka shots to the mix, it turned his world upside-down.

We decided to return to establishment No.1, the one we scoped out without entering. It was more club than pub, which meant the population was exclusively coloured. Fine, the tunes were great, and the beers cold. But to be honest, the hour and a half drive there had taken a lot out of us, so we made it back to the cottage a little past midnight.

We were up by 6 a.m, and we took the boat out for a spin. Superb. Not so cool was the idea of water skiing. I vehemently refused to be dragged by a rope, standing on a piece of wood, by a boat in mint condition I had permission to board. I'm a frigging land lubber, for crying out loud. All good and well. We went off to grab some breakfast after that and then wine tasting. The places of note that were open were the Slanghoek Wine Cellar and Jason's Hill Wine Cellar. Slanghoek had by far the better of the two, and we duly appropriated some of their fine products. After lunch, we decided a catnap was called for before driving to the Easter Vortex party.

After said catnap, trance parties seemed a little much. We decided to drive to a neighboring camp site where some of Dru's friends were staying. And we had a ball of a time. The group were a bunch of really cool cats, especially the Englishman, who had us in stitches. The camp itself was stunning. They stayed in a bungalow for ten people, which was on a hill, with a brilliant braai area on a beautiful lawn. The braai was brilliant, the alcohol flowed quickly, and the spliff served it's purpose. Again, we decided to call it an early night.

We decided to return to civilisation on Sunday morning rather than drag the weekend out. And what a great call that turned out to be. I returned home only to suffer a near fatal heart attack when my car wasn't where it was supposed to be. Damage had managed to convince one of my housemates to take it, and I was duly summoned to Mzoli's for some braai and dop. It wasn't as eventful as the last time we were there, but you can't have everything your own way. Not to say it wasn't fun, mind. We went to Lopez's shag buddy's house party after that, and we should have called it a night there and then. But of course we didn't, and we dragged the party until 3 a.m, which I dearly regret. The hangover I suffered yesterday is ineffable, and recovery is still an ongoing process.

It was really a wonderful weekend, and there's a lot I left out as well. Typing got arduous. It's back to the training pitch today, which will really hurt. I'm not looking forward to it at all. I'm looking forward to doing as little as possible though.

Good Friday...

2009-04-10T09:08:00.001+02:00

J and I have been to a couple of social events recently, and it always gets awkward when quizzed about our relationship, which is often. I'm always amused by how she always stutters through several answers at once, kind of blurting out everything that comes to mind as it comes to her. Then I sort of pick up the pieces and find the balance between playing our relationship down without demeaning it. In her defence, how the hell do you tell people, at a party, that you're fuck buddies. I'm yet to come across somebody who has that figured.

I learnt a couple of new phrases last night which were so esoteric, only two people knew them. I suppose they're trying to start something, albeit they were in total disbelief we didn't know about them. One particular phrase, "...give you carrots.", raised a bit of debate about it's validity. It's supposed to mean one is going to give someone shit, in a more polite way. The guys, and some of the girls who obviously were open to the idea, were convinced whoever originally said that had some other intention with the carrot.

I woke up with with a moerse hangover earlier this morning, which disappeared miraculously, sans some special age-old grandmother's formula. I'm grateful then that we didn't get to the vodka, otherwise I would be reading from a different chapter and verse.

Get that reference to the bible? (Un)Fortunately, that's as close as I'm getting to The Bible this Good Friday, or any other religious publication, for that matter.

shit happens...

2009-04-09T16:43:00.003+02:00

long weekend...

2009-04-09T10:31:00.003+02:00

I had another bout of weird-ass-dreams. I had a dream I could talk Arabic. Not sure what I was saying, or to whom. The second dream I was singing Car on Fire to the tune of King of Leon's Sex on Fire. I'm worried about Betty being on fire now, for whatever reason she might combust for. The last dream, I met Avril Lavigne. Not sure about that one, make up your own mind.

Long weekend madness is all about. The traffic in the morning has been minimal this week, which has been a pleasure. Well, I never have much to complain about, traffic wise, seeing I live a mere five minutes from graft. The likes of Hermanus, George, Knysna and Langebaan will be filled with CA plates all weekend. Good riddance. Add to that everybody going to Somerset West for the Coke Fest, and it's looking quieter and quieter this weekend, which is just fine by me. Well, on the condition J isn't one of those out of the city.

I'm trying to plan as little as possible this weekend, which can be great at times, but leave you stranded at others. Rumour has it my sister may be in town soon, or is already. Not sure. These surprise visits are quite popular with family. My aunt was here 3 weeks before she rang me up for breakfast. Nice...

And there's no rugby this weekend. Playing, I mean. I lied to the coach and told him I was away the whole week so I could stay away from practice. It's been 5 straight weeks of rugby four days of the week, and a little break was needed. Just to refresh and to recoup. The only thing I'm trying to avoid this weekend is going on the lash. And the first "what are your plans..." SMS beeps away as I write that. Curses...

all run over...

2009-04-07T09:06:00.006+02:00

I'm still bearing scars of the weekend today. I'm sore all over, and I'm not sure it's the results of blows from Saturday's game, or the weekend's shenanigans. Either way, thank God we aren't playing this weekend first of all, and secondly it's a mother of a long weekend.

But long weekends play tricks on you. After all has been said and done, you usually need another long weekend to recover from the one that has passed. So I'm busy conjuring a plan to counter that. I imagine the plan will involve a lot less drinking than was experienced this past weekend. That's a tough sell, but I have to make it happen to survive this one. I was going to fly to East London to see the folks, but being Easter and all, I'm not in the mood to be debating my disinclination for attending 6 hour church services.

That means I have to find other means of keeping myself entertained, and without rugby to distract me, it's going to be even tougher. The weekend is also full of sport on the telly, from Thursday right to Sunday. Mercy, but as Adidas would like you to believe, impossible is nothing.

And then there is J, one of the reasons I'm in such a condition. At her age, I could klap it with the best of them. Nowadays, you either respect the body or it will fuck you over. Bless her and her free spirit, her vodka included, but I'm going to have to take her in small and infrequent doses. Again, the vodka included.

Now, to find me some pain killers...

suicidal?

2009-04-03T08:25:00.003+02:00

curiosity killed the cat, but i'm human...

2009-04-02T16:19:00.006+02:00

You know when something bugs you to a most irritating degree and just won't go away? Like that boy group song stuck in your head. I found myself staring into a blank DOS window thinking about the waitress at Oblivion on Saturday. If that blinking cursor had not missed a blink, I would stayed in my vegetative state until somebody found me drooling or something. Nobody wants to see that.

I can't for the life of me figure why, of all the girls I meet and chat up, this girl is the only one who's name I would commit to memory, without even trying. She's hot, but nothing special, and at best, is looking at 22. So why would I remember her name? Jess is easy to forget, or as is often the case, confuse with another name.

The curiosity has gotten the better of me, so with Dru recently landed on our shores from New Zealand, I invited him to Oblivion under the spurious intention of celebrating his return on Saturday night. Well, I do intend to celebrate his return as well, but I'm really going to check out this Jess chick. The downside is, Dru being DrunkAndrew, it may involve a certain level of inebriation. Maybe I may have a good game of rugby to celebrate as well.

Nandos is really milking this Joost sex scandal. You would think the bloke has gone through enough, but people like scorning celebrities. Joost is apparently a racist, so I suppose I'll save my sympathy for the dog that's lying on the side of the road. Withdrawing legal action kind of proves he is guilty of playing in someone else's sandpit, so Nandos can have a full go at him...

rof, grof, 'en ombeskof!

2009-03-31T10:48:00.003+02:00

The weekend was a rather long one. Just thinking about it tires me out. A lot was done without achieving much, which is rather upsetting. Not as upsetting as the lack of quality women present at West End on Friday night, but upsetting nonetheless. Sleep is a commodity which I had precious little of, despite knowing I was going to be involved in a big game on Sunday.

Which was also upsetting. Our referee, who looked very familiar, was a pushover (I think he might be a pro ref). Our opposition, SK Walmers, who are a league above us, playing the likes of Varsity Cup winners Maties on a weekly basis, intimidated the referee shamelessly (bizarrely, he had an earpiece on, like the ones they use to communicate with the touch judge or the TV ref). Playing weaker opposition, they found themselves level at 3-3 at half-time, and chose to rather win the game by crook instead of proving they were the classier outfit, which was a testament of how well we fronted up to them in the first half. We were rof, grof, 'en ombeskof!

We completely lost it in the second stanza, preferring to play the man instead of the ball, and at one stage, we played for over five minutes with 13 men, and they duly ran in two tries during that stage. The rest of the game was played with 14 men, thanks to a very arguable red card. In games like these, especially friendlies, you would expect the ref to give the benefit of the doubt to the weaker team. Now I know what it's like for teams who travel to Old Trafford now.

Anyways, we lost, the game is over, the league starts on Saturday. I was impressed by how well I lasted throughout the game. Despite three consecutive nights out, I can't remember a time I was feeling too tired. The gym work is paying off after all. I'm hoping to be dropped to the 2nd team though, and maybe then I can enjoy some rugby.

I went to see JC strut her stuff at her hip-hop class last night. Some nifty looking things were pulling some good moves. I could show them a thing or two, as JC is vigorously trying to persuade me to, but I just don't have the time. I showed off some of my moves at Oblivion on Saturday night. That wasn't the most impressive thing about that night though. That was the fact I remembered the name of a hostess who works there and was working me after her shift. In true fashion though, I forgot to ask her for her number. It's just as well, she looks 19, at best. Maybe I'll go there sometime and ask for their shift schedule anyway.

Thanks to Beskarig, Caz, Chrisal and JC for making Sunday a better day than it would have been. Despite the former two feeling rather fragile, of my doing, they still pulled through. Sanks!

weekend guide...

2009-03-27T10:01:00.002+02:00

Nothing like a 'lil Le Tigre to remind one of the consequences of a PhUzA ThUrSdAy. Despite my trepidation after I was recruited, I enjoyed the rare outing with the 'Skank Motel Crew'. Pulling out moves on the dancefloor and belting out something resembling the lyrics to the songs does no harm to my rugby. Double jack and lime, on the other hand...

I've been volunteered for a trip to West End tonight. It's a very cool place in Athlone with sundowner specials and all. There's also a 21st I've been invited to by one of the boys at the club, but I think I'll give both a skip. I have a breakfast date with my aunt tomorrow morning. I have to be the upstanding young man she reckons I am. Little does she know...

My schedule is quite toight this weekend, after an afternoon off, it's off to watch the Sharks, then straight after that it's off to Damage's birthday party at Cafe Ganesh, which I have to leave after half an hour to go to our club's kit presentation by our sponsors, then back to Observatory to see off Damage's shindig. It's a lot of driving, I tell you. If I was driving these distances to score, I wouldn't be complaining.

Sunday is rugby, rugby, and more rugby. Lunch at the club president's house (free chow!), then off to play some ruggers. As if rugby on a Sunday is not abnormal enough, they went and organised for the game to start at 17:30! S2e, Caz, and Chrisal are coming along to watch, maybe Connie as well. It's a big game already, now having my peeps come and watch me will get a party started in my stomach.

Hell of a weekend up ahead. The April Fools jokes have started already...

Jan, Player 23

2009-03-25T08:44:00.002+02:00

I take it everyone has seen the Vodacom Player 23 ad. Personally, I thought it was funny, and the players parading as the fanatic as opposed to the norm was refreshing. And I can't get the song out of my head after I see the advert.

But not everybody is taking a liking to the ad. Some think it's just plain stupid, but there was a different point of view I heard around the water cooler at work. Some see Jan, the character on the ad worshipped by the rugby players, as a stereotype of the typical back-in-the-day Afrikaans rugby supporter.

Now, that typical Afrikaans rugby supporter, was stereotyped to be pot-bellied, racist, a drunk, and a wife beater, amongst other things. Some people would have liked to have seen a more modern day supporter up there, perhaps a 12 year old kid would have portrayed such a supporter better than Jan.

I can see the logic in the argument, and in trying to popularise the game of rugby with the black and coloured folks of South Africa, perhaps Vodacom, and SA Rugby, to a lesser extent, put their foot in it with advert. Even some white rugby supporters may feel insulted to be compared to the overweight Jan.

But like I said, I have no issues with the ad. There was a heated argument at work, and I thought Jan deserved a mention on the blog. Me thinks some people take life way too seriously!

Dirty Skirts on a Bed on Bricks

2009-03-22T09:04:00.001+02:00

A white girl was on the brink of accusing me of a deficiency of dancing skills. Fair enough, they haven't been tested in a while, but damn!

Rock music does get me in a noodle from time to time, with the beat all over the place (explains why whiteys are all over the dancefloor, except Piet). I went to see Dirty Skirts and Bed on Bricks on Friday at Springboks. Apart from the chilly weather, it was a cool show. I countered the weather by wearing Stef's jacket, which I got lambasted for by the guys. It didn't help that I wasn't drinking.

I was also accused for being in a Fresca advert! Who the fuck remembers Fresca adverts?! Not so long ago I was mistaken for a guy who was on the cover of a Men's Health magazine at FTV. Maybe I have the face...

The rugby didn't go so well yesterday. I can count the number of times I touched the ball in my one hand. We won, so I suppose I shouldn't complain. I spent the night at my regular surrounded by cops on what must have been an extended coffee break. There I was, Hunters Dry in hand, shot of Tequila next to me, and my car keys on the other side, and we are discussing football.

It was a relief when Chrisal invited me to his lair for some beer and shots of J&B. The Sharks won, ManUre lost, Chelski lost and I came out of the rugby minus injury. It was a good day at the office, I would say.

Suprisingly, I'm lacking a hangover this morning. Even better...

JZ to Walk?

2009-03-19T08:15:00.002+02:00

So after all the hoohaa, R100 mil, accusations, denials, and political interference, Jacob Zuma's charges of fraud, corruption, and money laundering look like they will be dropped by the National Prosecuting Authority.

I say they bloody well get on with it. Let the scribes find something new to wank about. Eight bloody years and the damn thing is still ongoing. JZ will inevitably become our not-so-beloved President, even with the charges hanging over his head. I reckon he would have done ala Bob Mugabe and his accusers would have found themselves in suspicious car accidents.

I reckon there's a job opening for JP as well. It seems JZ's chopper pilot doesn't know north from south. JZ was late for some rally because the chopper ended up in Tzaneen instead of Bakenberg (mind, I have no clue where that is either). I'm sure the money would be good, and JP could listen to JZ's war stories all day, and maybe even get to see his machine gun. Not sure his grandmother would be chuffed though.

But that's neither here nor there. Neither is spending 600 ZAR on earphones. I'm not sure what I was thinking. I bought two pairs, at R300 each. I mean, they are damn good earphones. I suppose I had my wretched luck with earphones in mind. But they are awesome! The bass makes me want to jizz on the spot.

It wouldn't be appropriate on the treadmill at the gym though. The pretty young lass next to me might get the wrong idea.

Mouse Pads for Men and Women...

2009-03-17T14:40:00.004+02:00

Mouse Pad for Men:

Mouse Pad for Women:

can i upgrade my memory?

2009-03-16T08:58:00.004+02:00

This was a strange weekend. Actually, it was full of surprises. The Sharks lost to the Reds, Liverpool beat ManUre, at Old Trafford nogel. Arsenal and Stormers recorded beeeeg wins, and at last, after 120 minutes of rugby this year, I remembered how to play. It sommer just came back to me, like a fart into the wind.

I also keep on having these random and vivid recollections of documentaries and interviews I have either read or seen on the telly. Problem is, I can't remember when or where I saw them, and they come to me at arb moments where there is no relevance to them. I'm thrilled my memory is still sharp, but it still betrays me at crucial moments.

Prime example being Stones on Saturday night. I was approached by this bird who greeted me like I was an old flame. The blank look on my face was worth a thousand words, because she picked up I didn't remember her. There was no comeback from that. I did point out that the premises sold merchandise conducive to memory loss, and add some modifications to her appearance, it was rather inevitable. She wasn't chuffed at that explanation, as she thought she was, or should be, hard to forget. Needless to say, nothing happened there.

Yet again, I was burnt by my memory, or lack thereof. I suppose I can't have it all.