Wednesday, September 17, 2014


I hope her feet are clean.

Hang about! Don't we have enough platforms on which dumbed-out teenagers, preppy pouty princesses, pissed off pseudo-intellectuals, crusty conspiracy theorists, and self-centred spammers can assault us with cute pictures of pugs, aggressive one-sided rhetoric and woeful spelling?
What do we need yet another for? Is it punishment for ending sentences on prepositions?

Or are people that desperate for a new background on their screen?

I'll tell you a secret...

The vine has been responsible for social networking for thousands of years. Yes, ladies and gentleworms, good old fashioned wine has been the social lubricant of choice for so long, it may as well be considered as old as mankind itself. This probably also accounts for an entire history strewn with poor decisions and worse consequences.

But enough about all the agricultural attempts by my predecessors, we're here to discuss my latest venture. For years I have wanted to make a bottle of wine on my own. From grapes I grew myself. This is unfortunately inordinately difficult to do when one owns a thin strip of backyard in urban purgatory.
Enter Slappy, who has some land just lying around in Constantia...
I now have a partner. We are going to make wine fit for the highest choir of angels, nay, the Gods themselves! After some careful planning and calculation, we embarked on this ever-so-exciting venture on Sunday when we erected the first half of our very small vineyard's trellises. The day after the Sepultura gig. In the sun. With a hangover. I've probably never worked that hard in my life. A farmer's life? Ha! You can keep that shit. But the results will be glorious! With probably a hint of plum and spices.

I'm going to use this here wee virtual soapbox of mine to keep you updated with the odd picture and accompanying anecdote. Vines go in this weekend. With any luck, I won't feel as close to death's door as I was on Sunday.

I hope you enjoy looking at these few pictures of the fruits of my labour as much as I hope to enjoy drinking them one day.

NGDG: You know you've had a wild weekend when your fridge is still full of all the beer you bought for chillax downtime.

Spread The Love. Sowing The Seeds.

Monday, September 15, 2014


I'm broken. Fucking totally and utterly spent. Kla, finished, overska-dovers...
And not because "I'm too old for this shit..." either, just because I had one HELL of a weekend. And as one does when one is having a splendid time, one imbibes.

Saturday night's Sepultura gig was IMMENSE! The preceding weeks' gefuffle about presale tickets seemed a distant foggy memory as Assembly filled up nicely to welcome the Brazil Nuts From Hell. Opening proceedings were the inimitable ING. And this is where I need to stop and carefully consider my next words. And they are as follows... Given the right presentation, in the form of world class sound and lighting, we are sitting on a fucking goldmine of international standard talent here in li'l ol' Slaapstad. ING were INGcredible! Clearly reveling in the chance to spread their tongue-in-cheek bile from this elevated platform, they excelled, leaving little left over for the other 2 bands to break.

Next up, the long awaited return to a Cape Town stage for Groinchurn. All I can say about them is, wow! If making massively impressive, hooky and intense music is what life's all about, and having an absolute ball doing so, then these guys have got it just right. The energy with which they performed was infectious, and given the fact that most people haven't heard these guys before (and those of us that had, did so 15 years ago), getting the crowd to go that mental was no mean feet.

And then, as if someone stuck Megamaid's vacuum cleaner into the bar area, the almighty fucking Sepultura bestrode the stage. I've seen them before. I am fortunate that way. But no amount of knowing what to expect can prepare you for the awe you feel when presented with a show of that magnitude. And for the record, fuck me, but that drummer of theirs is on another level altogether! He's simply beyond belief! As is their entire repertoire! We were treated to the mandatory classics and some monstrous newer material, all combining to devastating effect, and treating Cape Town to a night we shall not easily forget. I take my hat off to the guys at Witchdoctor Productions for the effort, the vision, the risk and the persistence that they have shown in being able to bring these world renowned bands here, for us. We owe you a huge debt of gratitude.

What's a blog post without a good whinge, eh?

Why in the glorious great fuck did the lights keep tripping at Assembly? At one stage when I could tear myself away long enough to grab a beer, I swear I even heard the stage go dead. Although In my defence, I was severely impaired by then. What with the very real intent to get as bladdered as humanly possible. Which did happen.

And to that grizzled old veteran standing in front and being a miserable git, stop being a huge dick. Yes, I agree that chivalry should never be overlooked, but kakking out the laaities who were clearly having the time of their lives, moshing their little hearts out, and admonishing them for getting too close to your lady friend? What the flying fuck? If you can't stand the heat, stay the fuck out of the pit. You're clearly a lifelong fan and follower of the heavy metals; has this never occurred to you? If you want to be an old bitter doos, come and join me at the back, far enough away and safe from the danger zone. I'll even buy you a beer. Besides, what you were doing borders on sexism. The ladies know how to look after themselves, trust me. Once, this young lady introduced herself to me with rather excessive force, resulting in me being launched onto a stage and breaking some plastic garden furniture. The bruised ribs could be from falling on the chair or the initial impact from her "Juliet-Lewis-in-Natural-Born-Killers" spear tackle.

Sunday I awoke feeling pretty sorry for myself, but that is a report for later... a tale in which I reveal my tastes for the finer things in life. And becoming a farm labourer, but not entirely to be paid with the dop system...

NGDG: There's a new vagrant on my route who is either a former cricketer or just cavalier with serifs. Sod Bless!

Spread The Love. \m/

Tuesday, September 9, 2014


Used without permission.
I apologise for my clearly one track mind.
No, I don't.
It's a picture of a carrot.
And a young lady who clearly values healthy eating.
A carrot is a root.

Once again, it's one of those days...
I'm sitting here balanced precariously on one thumb, hoping against hope that gravity and my exit hole don't conspire to make life even more uncomfortable.
Which reminds me of a particularly unpleasant instruction I received from a young lady I was, right up until that point, seeing in highschool. It was at least fairly conclusive, if a little too embarrassing for my adolescent self confidence, and left me in no doubt as to our future, or lack thereof.
As opposed to that incident many, many years later.

Can you tell I have had a slow day and sweet fuck all on which to report? In fact, I'm only writing today to avoid falling asleep at my desk, drooling into my keyboard and dying by electrocution. It's so quiet everywhere, I feel like I'm on the set of a Bjork video.

I can tell you about my hopes, dreams and aspirations if you'd like. I hope to complete a run after work, although the likelihood of that is diminishing the closer we get to beer'o'clock. Something however, that I am definitely going ahead with is my vineyard. Yes! I'm planting grapes and in a couple of years hope to be able to make some delicious wine. I have a partner in this venture and we've cleared a little piece of paradise in the Constantia valley. There's a palpable sense of anticipation now that we've committed to going ahead with this project. The trellises are going in this weekend and then there's no turning back. We even have a name for our little vineyard, but that's being kept under our hats until we're pretty certain we'll at least be able to bottle a product. Logo design has even started. You know, all the important thing...

Ah yes! What the internet is all about this week (and last) - the upcoming Sepultura gig! I cannot wait! Modern day messiahs of metal, Sepultura have certainly influenced many a burgeoning metal musician, not to mention millions of devoted fans all over the globe. Their intense, tribal, groove-orientated metal mantras have inspired the incorporation of influences that before may not have been considered. When they explored their "roots" the results were groundbreaking! People lost their shit!

And now they're coming to my little home town for the second time. Last time Andreas and I had a moment as he passed me his guitar pick. This happened just after I declined to beat up a very small girl with whom I was struggling for the possession of one of Igor's drumsticks (for my friend JDP). Eventually I let her keep it. Her gargantuan boyfriend was quite the daunting prospect. But not this time. This time I fight anyone who dares argue over memorabilia. I'm going home with the lot! Screw you guys!
But wait, that's not all! For the last time ever! And since you ask, for the first time ever, the almighty Groinchurn will be returning to a stage to bludgeon you to a pulp with their trademark grind! Exciting times! The last time they were in Cape Town I was left bloodied, bruised and completely happy, smiling from ear to ear. Not to mention that - if you order NOW! - we'll throw in the scathing machine-gun metal of ING, Cape Town's own bastard battalion of unPC, uncompromising thrash titans! But you can't go if you don't have tickets! Time is running out! Don't be that arsehole who laments later that they were unaware and wails about missing out!

Anyway, before I slip all the way down my dirty digit, I will bid you farewell. Not forever, just until tomorrow, when my mucky musings will once again soil your conscience.

Be good to one another. And if you're sans other, be good to yourself...

NGDG: If you say "Oh! Not you sir, that was for the idiot in the Porsche, driving in your blind spot" with sufficient conviction, the angry man in his safari suit who drove around the block, to find the runner who flipped him off for driving in the yellow line, will not punch you in the face. Even if he knows there was no Porsche.

Spread The Love. Remember To Eat Your Veggies.

Monday, September 8, 2014


In the spirit of maintaining the bullshit levels in the internets, I hereby humbly submit my report on this weekend's activities. It was yet another wonderful weekend away celebrating the lateral aging of one Tarty Farty Tequila Party. Accompanied by around 20 of her closest friends, Robertson was about to get a new one torn.

Surprising then, that Robertson is still walking just fine...
Probably because we were some ways out of town in this picturesque type of farmhouse accommodation.

Setting off directly after work, we got there at around 8 to discover that the potjie I was supposedly in charge of, was already basically underway. So, hastily catching up, and grateful to the foresight of the Bacon Pilot, I set about creating another masterpiece. Masterpieces, as we all know, take time. Especially when one is given a very large canvas (No.14 pot) and one has so many critics to satisfy. Alas, it seems we well and truly live in the era of fast food. Eventually I took a very calming little moonlight stroll and came back with my spirits lifted, ready to lift more spirits. To my bek.

I've never been a huge fan of Wimpy, but our outing to town for breakfast was well worth it if only to prepare me for the rest of the day by providing a timely reminder that we were, in point of fact, no longer in Kansas. Our waitress, bless her soul, manfully wrestled whiff the Ingils. As, evidently, she had done earlier whiff the same person who was responsible for Mimi's make up on The Drew Carey Show. After abandoning all hope of a successful shop at Pick 'n' Pay, we congregated at Kilpdrift for a private brandy tasting and tour. The inevitably trying introduction video was soon followed by a very interesting exploration of the cellars, equipment and processes involved in the making of South Africa's favourite spirit beverage. But it was the tasting at the end everyone was looking forward to the most. The Hot Girlfriend got all the little pairing edibles and I got all her brandy. The stage was set...

En masse, eventually, we did descend on the Robertson Beer Festival. After mild sunburn waiting to get our arm bands on, we were duly informed that they had run out of beer mugs (included in the entry price) but that we could purchase ours inside. The people inside knew nothing of this arrangement. Patience wearing thin, and bek burning from all the brandewyn, I eventually managed to slake my thirst with whatever lager was kind enough to dribble the measly millilitre for "tasting" into my nice clean unbranded mug. I'd need a few more of those if I was successfully to avoid allowing the treble assault on my poor ears to get the better of my good mood. So I quickly settled into a system of obtaining a "taster" in double measure, walking outside to my friends while sipping it down, and then promptly turning on my heals to go back and fetch the next. Until I got to the Belgian speciality stand. Where they actually refused me service. Deciding that they could forthwith fuck off, I got stuck at the Red Something Or Other stand. And bought a few bottles of their Indian Pale Ale, which was awesome. But even further down the rabbit hole I discovered Robertson Brewing Company and their delightful IPA, Irish Stout, and Scottish Ale. Didn't even bother with anyone else, as a wonderful afternoon out on the lawns was had by all.

Upon returning to our farmhouse, the braais were lit up and so were we, merely carrying on where we had left off from the beer festival. As conversations invariably do, ours turned to how c**t is not a bad word and resulted in a cunning strategy to "take it back" including various ways in which it could now quite easily be used in a sentence to have a more positive overall interpretation. I'll spare you the details, but I'd encourage you to use your imagination.

Sunday morning's monumenstrual hangover was very well earned. But after a Hearty Tarty Farty full English breakfast, we all went on a hike into the beautiful surrounding nature. Some of us hiked harder than others. There was a dog called Mischa who spent the first half entertaining everyone by carrying a half a tree trunk as a stick and unearthing rocks on which to chew from the damn. And that pretty much wrapped it up. Another awesome weekend away almost leading me to believe that I would be quite content living out in the sticks, where life is simpler and the air is clean. That is until you take a jaundiced view of the type of people who enjoy slapping the table at a beer fest while enthusiastically singing along to Queen's greatest hits, or indulging in a poorly co-ordinated conga line which for some inexplicable reason ended up "biting" its own tail and went cyclic (much to the terror of the poor patrons trapped at the tables inside it).

So no thank you, I'm quite fond of my "cityfolk cynicism".

Anyway, back to life, back to reality. Here I sit in my little office, spewing forth my bilious bullshit. If you've made it this far, congratulations. You may stop slapping the table at any time.

So in honour of a very special person, and a very special weekend that was had in her honour: Happy happy birthday Tarty! We all love and cherish you very much. Your precariously zany presence in our lives makes us all the more blessed. You are a ray of sunshine in an otherwise rather dull journey through life. Even if you brought a FUCKING BIRD along on our weekend adventure. Thank you for being everything you are.

NGDG: What if Where's Wally has a fear of crowds and the longer it takes you to find him increases his anxiety levels?

Spread The Love. Lookada Cute Lil Bunny.

Tuesday, September 2, 2014


The natural progression from "why should I pay for the music I consume?" was always going to be "why should I pay so much for going to a live show?" In a fast imploding industry that is literally squeezing blood from stone, a downfall of its own doing, the movers and shakers are clutching at straws. Record companies are insisting on publishing rights to remain afloat. Artists are relying on money from merchandise sales and concert tickets to remain capable of eking out a living. Yet we all follow the rantings of the tweeters and the twats.

In the wake of a few Cape Town shows potentially being cancelled or postponed due to extremely poor ticket presales, the question once again raises its ugly, acne-pocked head: Why are the residents of Cape Town so apathetic towards everything? The Mother City's inhabitants have always been famous for their reticence to purchase tickets up front. It's an extrapolation of their every day social interaction. Never commit to anything lest something better comes up. And with the summer looming, there are a lot of distractions. But let's - for the sake of argument - assume we're going to focus on the perpetually black clad trudging in the shadow of Table Mountain and glaring at the well-to-do passers by in the Gardens Centre. There remain precious few who take any subgenre or "scene" seriously enough to "live the life". This includes walking the walk, talking the talk and wearing the corresponding clobber despite the prevailing weather conditions. It's a gross generalisation, and I know some shining examples who are exempt, but these individuals are also invariably of the terminally unemployable variety and are therefore always broke. Just getting to the venue is sometimes a bridge too far. And these are the very people to whom the concert means the most. In most cases a plan is made, but it is difficult.
Then you get those who can afford to buy tickets to every exciting band coming here. This requires the sort of expendable income that's usually associated with gainful employment. And being stuck in suburban hell, sprogged up and short of babysitter options. Priorities change, particularly when the majority of the bands, however unbelievable they are, could be argued to be a little dated in some cases. Make no mistake, they appeal immensely to those of us that remember the halicon days of our misspent youth, but what of today's miserable youth? We very quickly pooh-pooh their tastes, but pull a face when they don't congregate in their droves for what can only be described as classic rock acts, by their shitty standards.
Then you get those of us in the middle. The successful adults who have the music so ingrained in their make-up that they wouldn't dream of missing the opportunity, or privilege, of seeing these amazing bands do their worst. In most cases, we have traveled outside our borders in order to see as many as we can. Some of us even continue to pay our own dog's ear homage to our heroes by forcing our square musical pegs into round holes.

So the answer is not simple. The organisers who are putting their fortunes and reputations on the line are doing an amazing job. Their sacrifice is appreciated by the vast majority of those of us who don't have the resources or will to put so much into making these amazing shows happen. But you can't make a horse drink once you've led it to the water. You can only hope that the deeply ingrained culture of apathy is eventually replaced with genuine excitement and commitment from the many, many people to whom they hope to appeal. Drawing comparisons between - for instance - Sepultura visiting our shores a decade ago, and their show next weekend, become difficult. 10 years ago we had nothing. We are seriously spoiled for choice now. People are having to decide which shows to attend and which to forfeit. Very few of us are lucky enough to be in a position to afford it all. For fuck's sake, most people balk when you charge R40 for 3 or 4 awesome local bands at a great venue.

"Why should I pay for my entertainment?" Don't get me started, but it's going to be almost impossible to get the horse back. It's bolted and no amount of closing the stable door is going to change that. That being said, all we can do is continue doing our best to make it better. Encourage people to invest in local music by paying to see shows, or buying the records or merchandise. Provide them with something worthwhile spending their money on. Giving up now would potentially have devastating effects on all the hard work already invested. If shows need to be cancelled because of financial constraints, then so be it. I understand and will redouble my efforts to help avoid a similar scenario in the future. I can't speak for all the rest of the mouth breathers.

With any luck we can avoid something as drastic as cancelled shows, but let me put this out there: Lamb Of God had City Hall packed. Why? Are they simply an altogether more enticing prospect? Are they really more popular? I suppose so.

In summation: This is an upward curve, relying on YOU, the music fan to make it work. Only if we all pull in the same direction do we achieve results. The organisers do not owe you a damn thing; you owe them your eternal gratitude and more of a willingness to buy into their endeavours.

There is obviously a whole interwoven multitude of socio-economic factors that one could argue this way and that ad infinitum, but I don't have the time to get into that. I have wounds to lick and prayers to offer up. Also, that whole cliche of drowning my sorrows...

NGDG: For every ditch in the road there's a subterranean mole person braking for a speed bump.

Spread The Love. Refuse! Resist!


Excuse my dithering ignorance, but unlike the rest of the herd known as humanity, I remain obstinately - and very blissfully, I might add - unaware of most #trends, current aberrations in the entertainment industry and the like. Unless of course they are forced on me and I can't ignore the glaring lack of tact, taste or talent.

For the most part, suffice it to say that I see the headlines, but prefer the company of my own mind and a jar of lube. So, let's go and google this poor dear and see if there is anything besides this naked picture leak scandal.

Ok, so it turns out she's an actress and apparently her most significant role was in something called the Hunger Games.
And now she's Kardashian-famous because some piece of shit who probably fantasises about his mother in the shower decided to post very private nude pics of her and some other celebrities online. Firstly, let me put it to you that YOU are the reason this happened. No, not YOU, the ever so bent out of shape literary activist who has spouted incensed vitriol since the breaking of this sordid story, but YOU the general public who click on anything put in front of you without the slightest thought or consideration. Because your attention span is that of a particularly easily bored goldfish and your overwhelming sense of self worth has built indestructible blinkers around your fat fucking head. YOU'VE caused this. YOUR veracious appetite for smut and sensation that ooze from your every pore created the demand. YOUR validation of vapid, vacuous harlots whose only contribution to society is their ability to gorge on cock and build celebrity careers out of nothing created the demand. You're exactly the type of p**s that would be front and centre pushing some poor misunderstood girl into the clutches of Matthew Hopkins himself, baying for blood and proclaiming loudly how she'd turned you into a newt. What's wrong with you people?

The fact of the matter is this. People, no matter how famous or sought after, are entitled to their privacy. Granted, some flaunt and tempt and taunt a little too much for comfort, but that gives no one the right to transgress this moral line. Besides, what the fuck is the fascination? Is it just because it's "taboo"? Please! You're just too lazy. More than half the internet is filled with pornography of every variety. Sleazy, sick, even sexy. There is something for everyone's taste. No matter how depraved a voyeur you fancy yourself, there is something for you - just a few clicks away. And the discovery and enjoyment thereof is actively encouraged by those that provide it, very often free of charge. And at no emotional detriment to themselves (for the most part - hopefully). But just because this shit surfaced on a popular aggregation site and the news got hold of it, all of a sudden you decided to completely ignore the social norms you grew up with (and most likely expect from others, let alone will probably teach to your little girl one day)...

Next time you feel like reaching over to your extra value jar of lube while about to click on one of these sensationalist "exposes" think to yourself how you'd feel if it was your sister. Or your girlfriend.
Next time you shout at some old lady for driving slowly, imagine that's your grandmother.
Next time you blithely download someone else's intellectual property, imagine it was something you'd worked on for years and poured your soul into.
I could go on. And often do.

So much for the self righteous rant. I'm just as guilty as anyone of perpetrating the crime against decency by blogging about it. But I refuse to wantonly click on it. And don't get me started on amateur sex tapes. I really don't get it. What makes these halfwits so special or worthy or our attention? Naughty, naughty. You should collectively be ashamed of yourselves.

Before I finish up... and then inevitably deal with everyone's unwanted opinions on the matter after I post this, let me ask one last question? Why make sex tapes in the first place. Unless you have no other skill, are slightly squint and possess the arse of a couch-ridden diabetic, and you're hellbent on a career in show business, what's the point? I'm the most annoyingly narcissistic arsehole alive and even I don't have one. And trust me, The Hot Girlfriend is way hotter than whatshername? The one everyone is clicking on right now...

NGDG: My alarm clock scares me. The last time something loud and wired was in my bedroom, I battled to get it to drive home.

Spread The Love. Turn Off The Internet And Go Play Outside.

Thursday, August 28, 2014


There really hasn't been an awful lot on which to report of late. I haven't felt remarkably witty or shitty, so nothing going for me there in terms of blogfodder. It's been fairly ordinary in my life - the usual contentedness and slogging away - making music at great expense and no great expectation of anything in return.

I did however get taken out for dinner on Monday night by the ever effervescent Tarty Farty Tequila Party. Den Anker is an enchanting place tucked away in the Waterfront, specialising in Belgian cuisine and sporting an impressive selection of Belgian beer. NOT fucking craft beer, which is just prepackaged piss brewed in someone's garage and then given the equivalent of an ironic moustache as a label and sold to people who "trend". The highlight of every visit to Den Anker - and I've been there a few times - is the intriguing tradition of relinquishing one's left shoe to the server when ordering a Kwak beer. The reason given is that the glass and wooden stand in which the beer is served usually proves too tempting for the thieves among us to resist and the shoe becomes a sort of insurance policy as it's deposited into a large wicker basket and hoisted out of reach above the bar. Even when you're sitting in the fine dining area. And heaven help you should you need to go to the toilet half way through savouring your Kwak.
Anyway, a delightful evening out with the Tart was had - as always. Soon we go away en masse to celebrate her birthday and the anniversary of my potjiekos victory! Somehow there's always food and drink involved...

Let's see - what can I whinge about? ALS Ice Bucket Challenge? Other than its inherent annoyance factor, I actually think it's a rather novel way to raise awareness and has been very successful in raising funds. It's the shrivelled dickheads who clamber on the passing bandwagon and embrace the latest thing hashtagging without making a material donation that get me down. Ok, so now I'm more aware of Lou Gehrig's Disease. I'm still going to focus my charity on animals. I also happen to be aware of cancer, AIDS, cirrhosis, ebola, man flu and stupidity, all life threatening diseases, but I'd rather give my money and time to the local doggie shelter if it's all the same to you. I'm genuinely surprised no one has yet accused big pharmaceutical companies of a conspiracy to start this challenge in order to sell more cold and flu medication. A cold shower is not on my bucket list.

My bucket list often changes. When I was younger I wanted nothing more than to fling myself off the highest bridge with an elastic band around my ankles. Elastic bands are also used to eventually make lamb's nuts drop off.
I also wanted to travel to Mexico and drink real tequila with real Mexicans, worm and all. Then I realised Mexico is far. I also found myself opting for Jagermeister every time someone offered me a shot.
It goes without saying that there are a number of bands that I would kill to see. However, it occurred to me that for the price of a plane ticket, I could avoid being bummed to death in Polsmoor, so perhaps I should just look into a European holiday. And seeing as how Witchdoctor Productions is currently on a hell-driven mission to bring every band ever to South Africa, I might just wait around a little before dialing Flight Centre.
Here's hoping I still get to enjoy Swans, The Cure, Fields Of The Nephilim, Paradise Lost and My Dying Bride before I shuffle loose this mortal coil. I was thinking of trying to document all the bands I have seen, but realised that would simply take far too long. (This is NOT an invitation to my friends to gloat about the bands they have seen. It's just going to earn you some thinly veiled contempt.)

Speaking of the bands currently booked to come here, let's see if we can name them all, shall we? Sepultura, Behemoth, Konkhra, Septic Flesh, Epica, Fleshgod Apocalypse, Alestorm, Belphegor, Kataklysm, Aborted, At The Gates and a handful of "to be confirmed"s - things are indeed looking rosy. Not to mention all the awesome locally hewed metal...  I suppose I should mention the Foo Fighters as well, but I'm not going. Neither am I going to bother with the Kings Of Chaos, or whatever. But it's a sign of a thriving and vital live entertainment industry and South Africa is now becoming a destination of choice. If only the poverty stricken among us would shut their fucking gobs about the ticket prices and the occasional need to travel. "A man walks into a Ferrari shop with a handful of R20 notes and gives the smarmy salesman a withering glare..."

Anyway, my true and faithful fans and friends (All 8 of you including my Cuzzin)... Have a splendid day. I'm going to get on with the very pressing business of distracting myself with online curiosities until it's time to go home and nap. Then I'll try and block out the world's appalling decline with as much booze as I can ingest and start the entire horrible cycle again with tomorrow's terrifying hangover.


Before I go, actually... Helpful Hint Of The Day:
If you would like your goose to take the Ice Lolly Challenge and have made the wrong choice and are stuck with it (her), fear not! I have the solution! In our product endorsement section today, go and pick out something that will melt even the most frigid of hearts at Martin Barnard Manufacturing Jewellers.

NGDG: Liberia has called up the army to halt its Ebola outbreak. I'm not convinced a gang of twelve-year olds high on mandrax toting AK47s is the best containment measure.

Spread The Love. Fresh Batteries For Your Vibrator.