Thursday, May 21, 2015

SPANKING SHOULD BE A SANCTIONED SPORT...

...in which I get to choose the spankees.

The world is crammed to capacity with geniuses.
Eskom implements loadshedding; every single person in South Africa chooses to inform every single person in South Africa that the parastatal power utility is mismanaged and struggling to meet demand. And that its all the fault of the ruling party, who have chosen to benefit financially from their sudden position of power, instead of heeding the warnings of the departing incumbents. How clever of everyone.
The weather - amazingly, and not at all against its natural course - turns a few degrees more nippy; mass hysteria and lamenting the likes of which were last seen at the Wailing Wall, and last Autumn.

Do you want to know who the government is REALLY letting down? The guy living on the street who has no heater. He can't turn it on to alleviate his shivering night, nor can he turn it off to spare the grid's embarrassment.

Get over yourselves and instead of spewing out redundant and self indulgent whining, do something positive. Enjoy a candlelit dinner. Plan ahead. Look into the cost of buying a UPS. Get a gas stove/light. This shit - no matter how terribly inconvenient to your precious sensibilities - is not going to sort itself out overnight. And pointing your accusatory little digits won't do a damn bit of good.
I'm not suggesting blind acceptance of something so blatantly incompetent, merely suggesting that your time would be better spent - and the community better served - if you rather did your bit to curb your own wasteful usage, or write a tune on your Grandpa's guitars. Actually, no scrap that last suggestion, it'll probably be awful and everyone will believe you to be a protest singer. And we're trying to get away from pointless complaining...

Last night The Hot Girlfriend informed me that I should complain less on this here virtual soap box of mine. And here I go, complaining about people who complain. Apparently it's far more enjoyable to read the irreverent stuff because there is an inherent humour in my incoherent rambling. She probably has a point, but as I pointed out over a delightful dinner (she took me out - it was awesome!), these days adulthood is taking its excruciating toll on my free time and my mood at work. So now I only post something when I have something to say, and that invariably includes anything to do with music, or whatever pisses me off. Long gone are the days of me entertaining you with tall tales of my death defying feats of athletic accomplishment (jogging) or the hysterical highlights of a life lived by the litre and all the near fatal flings with the poisoned chalice of chance (drinking). Ok, I've give you that one. That last list of seemingly pointless words really does make me look like the proverbial doos that's trying way too hard, and for that I apologise. I'm clearly out of practice. How about I promise to lighten up, eh? Just promise to keep reading! Otherwise the internet and the Universe are rendered entirely pointless and the last thing you'll read here is a suicide note...

I'd probably get a handful of Facebook likes for that...

Yes, so I got treated to dinner out last night. Perhaps as a reward for having to endure the cliched pain of shoe shopping with my woman. Thankfully it ended well, as the new boots are really awesome, but not before I had an Al Bundy moment with the unfortunate shop guy.

Anyway, back to the land of nod. I finally got my car back from its second opinion, since my current car doctors have been unable to diagnose what ails the poor thing after 4 attempts. So far so good. This time next year I hope that all the frustration of this year pays off, and I can transform into one of those annoying, smug arseholes who drive like dicks because their German-engineered cars cost more than my house. It won't be a huge leap, as I already identify with them. I just don't have the tools yet.

So in the spirit of being less serious, here is an appalling joke.
Sing along if you know the tune...

There were four in the bed
And the little one said
"Ag nee man fokof!
Ek will ook my beurt he om die hot een te spyker!"

Spread The Love. We Could All Do With Some More. It's Free To Give.

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

SWEET EPILEPTIC SATAN!


Yes, folks, this is my... ta ta daa daaaah! Six hundred and sixty sixth post!

Everything is kak! Everything is in a shambles!
I may as well have started like with 'Fly On The Windscreen'.

Actually, the only kak here is that which is coming out of my mouth. Via my keyboard. Obviously.
Life is peachy and I have very, very little I can (even) complain about.

Just don't get me started on the music biz.

I declared earlier on FB that I wanted to start a band called LIKE, SHARE, FOLLOW & THE SELFIE SCHTICKZ. Because having spent my entire adult (straight face, I swear) life trying to make something of substance other than my frequent toilet breaks, I have almost reached a point where I would like to see some return for my constant effort. Hence my suggestion to form a group or become an artist with seemingly no talent and no end to back-end support. And I'm not talking about adult diapers either. I also want to mutilate a popular phrase and splooge it all over a second rate beat while looking like a smug schmuck. I already have a crippling sense of superiority, so I'm halfway there!

I even have proposed song titles...

Bitch stab me in the back (wit' a swagger)
Don't poke me, don't poke me (in my hashtag)
Ain't got no big butt, but I still got mi'yinns.
Shitz gettin' Cray-Cray(YOLO) - multicolour mix

And then in a moment of ultimate blasphemy, I'd do a Cure cover... "Pictures Of Me"... but that would be a Jack Parowdy.

As you have no doubt discovered by now, I am having a slow day at work. And on top of that, I have loadshedding to look forward to tonight halfway through band practice. Lovely.

Actually, perhaps a barf-metal band would be a better idea. You know, the kind that concerns themselves mainly with themes of partying and drinking. I could write such celebratory gems as "Bladder Betrayal" and "Legions Of The Legless" and tour the world getting ironically drunk.

Anyway, suppose I'd better stop now before someone (me) gets hurt.

Spread The Love. It's All In The Eyes.

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

THE PENIS MIGHTIER THAN THIS WORD.

This is not what FR David was on about.

Words are meant to be all powerful. They're supposed to render ones opponent impotent in the face of their sheer magnitude and overwhelming force. Why then, has society chosen to upgrade its arms and devalue the written word so dramatically?

And by the written word I, of course, mean lyrics to songs. And now my train of thought has come to shuddering halt and sommer derailed itself...

My brain has most certainly atrophied to the point where I can no longer follow through on any particular chain of reasoning. Perhaps it's because we live in a world where what passes for literature is the equivalent of what passes through ones rectum after binging on McDonalds. And it's just as nourishing for your soul. Don't get me wrong. I'm no high brow literary man with leather-elbowed tweed jackets. I own Wayne Rooney's autobiography for fuck's sake. But I draw the line at "I can hazz cheezburger". And the subsequent demolition of language in all its glorious applications.

I also own a leather bound edition of The Necronomicon, although I struggle with that one. Also, for the real prose-nuts, an author bound first edition of Bayeau (as if to make my point, I'm not entirely sure of the spelling - darn you, socky ironicalness!). If you have to ask, then you're one of the many left out of the loop.

So why am I banging on about something most educated people have already lamented ad nauseum? I saw a link that asked 'Why can't we read anymore?" and instead of reading it, I chose to fill your lives with my pointless drivel. Aren't you excited? Now you can go and spend your lunch hour in a queue for Burger King (or any other establishment with wifi) and entertweet yourself with bytesized glimpses into the lives of some of the most inconsequential individuals ever to draw breath. Do not forget to buy the branded lunchboxes!

My poor kids, should I one day afflict the Earth with the result of my heaving procreation attempts, are going to be the least popular kids in school!

Fuck this - I'm going to "whooosah!" for the rest of the afternoon and have Anathema's latest offerings on youtube soothe my soul. If only there was genuine rest for the wicked. I'd even settle for just a nap and dial back my diabolical plans a notch...

Spread The Love. Wield Your Mighty Word Sword (Excalibur Mark)

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

MISSIONARY - NOT BORING AT ALL!


Wayne Hussey is wonderfully flawed. On his own, or with The Mission, he has never delivered the picture perfect performance, or at least not to the best of my rather limited knowledge, having been stationed on the other end of civilisation for most of his career. This makes him endearing and honest. And last night I was once again fortunate enough to witness and experience one such performance, having had the privilege to "rock out with my Docs out" many years ago when he brought out the full band and Dawnrazor still called Cape Town home. (I know, because he was my major partner in paralytic crime that night, front and centre...).

Except last night was mainly acoustic, completely intimate and Wayne alone, doing a selection of songs from his illustrious career (songs that have informed and influenced the way I attempt to write to this day) as well as a few seemingly cheekily chosen covers. Allow me to lift the veil...

Ashton Nyte, South Africa's favourite son and dark romantic, got proceedings under way with is own set of acoustic gems, spanning an impressive career boasting some 18 albums, the latest of which, Some Kind Of Satellite, he is touring - hence his inclusion in the Hussey roadshow for South Africa. And not a moment too soon! Ashton has been an awesomely accomplished performer for as long as I can remember, but every time I see him on a stage I am even more taken by his charisma and presence. I only have one ... observation. Yes, I get that "that song" put him on the map and brought him to the attention of the local media and fans, but people please! He has consistently released the highest quality material - having written such exquisite songs as Maree and many more. Stop baying for damned 'Sound Of Silence' and appreciate this amazing artist for all that he has to offer.

Anyway, on with the dog 'n' pony show.

Up next, ushered in "Here, have a seat, Mister Huss!"style was, well, Mister Hussey.
Backed by an array of gorgeous guitars, he launched into his stellar back catalogue (as well as some other interesting nuggets and anecdote, most of which were him remembering the shenanigans from his last show in Cape Town, but nothing of The Purple Turtle after party...)
Since I can't possible remember everything, here then, the highlights and various other of my lustrous opinions:

'Severina' was exactly, exactly the way I imagined it would be, stripped of its stadium pomp, it was an understated, but not unassuming jewel, as was the equally austere 'Like A Child Again'.
'Wasteland' was one that I was looking forward to immensely. Wow! What a unique take on one of his biggest classics! Playing an extended version which strayed so far from the original that when he eventually meandered his way back to the memorable chorus, people were actually surprised.
The haunting beauty of 'Tower Of Strength' will stay with me for a long time. I can't really comment more.
Interspersed between these Mission classics, were a number of treasures such as a cover of Echo & The Bunnymen's 'Killing Moon' done on ukelele - smashing! He also snuck in a rather subdued 'Personal Jesus', which worked very well if you prefer the Johnny Cash version to the Depeche Mode dancefloor favourite.
At one stage I found myself outside at the bar, where I was royally entertained by the MC, Danny. So I know for a fact I missed a few songs, and you'll have to forgive me if these were played, but I felt that a trick may have been missed by overlooking 'Grapes Of Wrath' and 'Lovely', both of which make stunning acoustic numbers...
And then he went and did The Cure... Holy Shit! - as in "holy shitting on my holy cows" that is. I cringed my way through whichever song it was that he assaulted, I can't even think which one it was now. Only the Sleepers have ever successfully pulled off a Cure cover.
Also, 'All Along The Watchtower', although given the Mission treatment, just didn't do the song justice, especially since Jimi made it so famous with all his guitar wizardry, spicing up Dylan's doleful dirge.
And then all was forgiven, forgotten and forever consigned to history as closer 'Butterfly On A Wheel' brought the fucking house down! Inviting Ashton back on stage to share vocal responsibilities on what is arguably The Mission's best known title, the crowd was blown away! Ashton's immense vocal capability gave a song I have loved for 2 decades or more an added sheen, a lustre of such blinding brilliance that I sat there awe struck and dumbfounded. Without a doubt, that rendition was one of the highlights of my existence. Bravo! Both of you! For an incredible show!

Anyway, I have to love and leave you. To Jon Monsoon, thank you mate! To ASP Records - congrats on putting on a great show and thank you for bringing out one of my heroes. Again. And Ashton, it was good seeing you again. And to the few unfortunates who didn't book their babysitters late enough, you missed out on one of the singular greatest performances I have ever had the privilege of experiencing. Seriously.

And to my own collaborator-in-chief. I'm truly sorry.

Spread The Love. Just Not Like On Amelia.

Friday, May 8, 2015

GLORY HOLES - YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG.


Apparently it's the 70th anniversary of the end of WWII. These unlucky motherfuckers are pictured here getting what is likely to be their last smooch ever. Judas's real name was actually Judith.

Anyway, pardon my absence. I've been on holiday. And as with leave from work, the inevitable deluge of excrement that accompanies ones return, rendering ones time away and the relaxation it offers, ultimately pointless.

At least it allowed me some much needed relief from the scourge of social media. It was bliss. But like smoking, we're drawn back out of necessity and an overwhelming urge to be in with the cool kids. So I continue. Batten down the proverbial hatches for I have much to tell in the line of "what I did on my vacation".

I spent a lot of time on the West Coast. Now remember, much of my previous contact with people from the fabled West Coast was brought about by people in my past who I am gladly no longer obligated to call bosom buddy. I had some dreadful experiences with the worst of the worst. Being exposed to the type of person who obstinately embraces being backward left an indelible mark on my conscience. Between that, the lack of shoes, crocheted condoms, the dialect and my well documented penchant for judging the fuck out of people, it is always with much trepidation that I venture beyond Melkbos. I mean, Tableau Voi is bad enough, with the boy racers washing their sooped up Corsa Lites on Saturday mornings. Etceteraaaah.

Anyway, I had a very pleasant day in Paternoster, where I also happened to bump into the only dog on Earth who doesn't like me. Small world. Apparently there are roadblocks leaving the fishing village to check your vehicle for contraband crayfish. Oh, what passes for entertainment out there...

Langebaan was an entirely more exciting proposition. Mainly because we brought big city sophistication (well, sarcasm) with us for the trip. The recently betrothed AzPack and DrHellCuz dragged The Hot Girlfriend and I along for a long weekend of sitting in traffic on Langebaan's main stretch. Apparently there was some form of festival in town. We did what any normal person would do and braaied, drank and laughed a lot. I even shed my shoes on one occasion in an ill advised attempt to assimilate myself with the wildlife.

Oh yes, rewinding the clock even further, we had an awesome time with our respective sets of visiting Expats from the UK. Dinners, wine tasting, braais, more wine tasting, Crimson House, some wine tasting, breakfasts, The Flaming DeVilles, obnoxious bar bills at Mercury, biltong making, some of the worst hang overs in recent memory...

...oh and some wine tasting.

My cup truly runneth over.

Not so much when I think of all the car trouble I had. Perhaps it's time to trade in the Frog Prince. I should have sold it to that oke who left not one, but TWO post-its on my car asking if I was interested in selling.

Here's your disconcerting thought for the day:

The term M.I.L.F, as popularised in American Pie, might also stand for Mother In Law Fucker.

Sweet Dreams, children.

Spread The Love. No More War.

Friday, April 17, 2015

GORDON MOTHERFUCKIN' RAMSAY!


I couldn't even... 
...help myself.

Yeah, bitches. 4 and a half years of living on my own has proven worthwhile. Very much like when Faf du Plessis first went to go and play county cricket, I have been forced to learn how to cook for myself. And subsequently, others.

Up until the sudden onset of inexplicable madness, I was quite happy to indulge in the omnipresent deal of "you cook, I clean". It worked with everyone with whom I ever shared an abode. When all of a sudden it dawned on me that you can't actually braai every night, despite a very valiant effort. Even substituting "breakfast for dinner" didn't provide enough variety. So I decided to expand my meal-base.

And now - after countless panicked phone calls to the better half of the DSW - I believe I have the hang of it. Last night at dinner club, the applause stopped just short of a standing ovation. I have taken to providing a theme to the nights on which it is my turn to whip up something fanciful and last night it was "Shit served inside other shit".
The starter was a butternut soup served inside hollowed out fancy loaves with rosemary. Like a soup gatsby.
Then followed the bobotie cooked and served inside a pumpkin - fucking impressive, hey!
And to finish off, it was baked brie-in-black-fig drizzled with honey.
Add some good wine and some great company and you have a night of gastronomic grandeur the likes of which I doubt I will ever be able to replicate.

So you see, I'm not just an alcoholic, cantankerous, potty-mouthed axe-murderer. And all I can say is thank God I have a dishwasher. The kitchen resembles Dresden. Next thing you know, I'm eating scrambled eggs, with a comb, from a shoe. And there are shin bandages next to the cheese.

So now you see. The similarity to Gordon Ramsay stretches further than the shocking list of expletives streaming from our mouths at any given time. And nobody got my Hilary Swank joke. Fuck all of you.

Oh yes, before I forget, tonight sees KUDUCHILD (still the second best name in SA music) unleash their latest single at Mercury. Best you be there to join the boys in giving it horns. Joining them are KRAAL (I wonder if the combination of their names raised any "domestic" jokes) and CONDUIT (in my opinion, which you should take very, very seriously, one of the hottest bands about right now).

And speaking of unspeakable amazing things - as we are - tomorrow night I will be taking some time out to quietly sit in a dark corner and sob a heartfelt little sob or immeasurable sorrow. The most incredible line up of bands assembled on one stage in one night is happening tomorrow at Club Med. THE SLEEPERS, WILDERNESSKING, OHGOD & PEASANT. And I can't go...
That's it. Stick a fork in me, I'm done... he concludes with a forced cooking metaphor.

Have a safe, awesome weekend.

Spread The Love. But Get Out Of My Kitchen.

Wednesday, April 15, 2015

CANDLES ARE A GIRL'S BEST FRIEND



And, as it happens, guys too! Sies, you and your dirty mind.

This morning I woke to no lights, no tv and no toaster. I still managed a hot cup of coffee, a hot shower and enough candlelight by which to bumble around. Major inconvenience. How many millions in this country have to contend with that, or even less, daily? Spare a thought for those less fortunate. After all, if Mr Bean is to be believed, winter is coming.

So stop fucking moaning about loadshedding.

Imagine you were thrust into a position of extreme responsibility without having a single clue how to do the job.

Oh, to have a paycheck large enough to sincerely not have to give a fuck...

Ah, there it is. Just as I get all misty eyed and pious, my dear fellow countrymen do something to reaffirm my despair for humanity. What's with all these attacks against foreign nationals? (Please note my extreme refusal to refer to these as "xenophobic". I am not now, nor have I ever been, a fledgling journalist who just discovered a fancy nice big word and now has to overuse it to death.) And why do they seem to be so coordinated? The sad truth is that I actually understand why it's done. In a hand-to-mouth existence, one lashes out at the most obvious impediment to your own survival, the targets in this case the people who are seen as taking "err jerbs". Anyone can run a spaza shop, therefore undercutting the locals is seen as a threat. Imagine how bad it has to be in the rest of Africa for anyone to risk opening a shop in a local township as a better alternative.

And the root of all evil, as is always the case, is money. Or the lack thereof. Congratulations Zuma, your Nkandla lifestyle is being paid for handsomely. You are, of course, merely a convenient example of the emergent elite who are largely responsible for the abject poverty that leads to the above mentioned barbaric behaviour. I hope one day that you see that. And that the paycheck is not large enough anymore for you to turn a blind eye...

You, and of course those bastard imperialists.

Spread The Love. Peace, Love And Understanding Are A Stone's Throw Away.