Thursday, December 22, 2011


Another year down the toilet. What, if anything, did YOU achieve? Did you contribute in a positive manner to your surroundings or your fellow human beings? Or did you just sit and glower at the world via FaceBoobs and make jaundiced comments designed to display your aloof coolness, when all they did was show what a socially awkward wanker you are?

Not me. I sat and made derisive comments on FaceBoobs all year purely for YOUR entertainment. Everyone already knows what an utterly useless wanker I am.

I got some things right this year though:

  1. I got to see Rammstein, drugged up to the teary eyeballs, barely able to stand up straight, with my best mates.

  2. I successfully managed to keep the Good Ship McArb afloat through some choppy personal waters and it's a good thing I did. The Hot Girlfriend was worth the wait.

  3. I am almost fully transmogrified into a nifty hybrid of Martha Stewart and Keith Kirsten. This domestic goddess has perfected the art of conjuring culinary delights AND has green fingers - good for gardening.

  4. Team Burger King did us all proud with their perma-podium finishes. Whilst we never actually won, we were certainly a highlight and "coulda been a contender" at the LMG Pub Quiz nights.

  5. I did the inaugural Tutus 'n' Tiaras run (my eternal gratitude for everyone's assistance and support). Watch this space for more information soon. We're organising an event to benefit animal welfare. McCall, you are loved, missed and the inspiration for this wonderful initiative.

  6. I played my first full length gig in a long time, storming the stage at Mercury with my fellow miscreant in Axxon.

  7. I instituted a daily dof of the cap to the inspirational Neal Goldwyer, the King Of The Quip. Catch the latest instalment of his Daily Gems at the bottom of this post.

  8. I made you look, I made you poep...

Notable achievements by those near and dear:

  1. Tarty Farty Tequila Party managed to move homes without a complete break down. And the new place is rad!

  2. Rose Thorn got to see her all time greatest idol, Tori Amos.

  3. TDB managed a blog post.

  4. Various other people got hitched and/or had children.

Also, since this will be my final post of the year, let me take this opportunity to remind one and all of the superawesome live music event which will be ringing in the New Year. Rock The River, with it's stellar line up of local acts, is set to be THE party to be at, no question! I will be performing on the night of the 31st with the other crazed loons of AXXON, delivering a devilishly delightful set of In-Your-Face Industial. There will be lots of stompin' and hollerin'. Afterwards, when I am allowed to have a little drinkie, there will probably be more stompin' and hollerin'...

And on a more sombre note, today marks the anniversary of the passing of Joe Strummer - RIP you should have stayed, not gone.

And so, dear friends and readers, we come to the end of our journey together for the year. I'll be happily rid of you bastards for this last week, not having any interwebnets 'n' all, sunning my lanky ass in various stages of inebriated holidaying. Have a fun, safe festive season full of love and cheer and hopefully a few naughty sexual favours. 'Til New Years!

And for fuck's sake, do NOT drink and drive!

NGDG: "There's a venerable Scottish tradition of putting one's house in order ahead of the new year so all bodes well. My hanging garden replete with downlights is that final step in putting mine in order. Just waiting for the paint to dry to complete installation."

Spread The Love. In Your Saucy Little Elf Suit... Happy Holidays!

Wednesday, December 21, 2011


Joke of the day

Good news: Kim's dead.

Bad news: It's not one of the Kardashians.

And on other diabolically stupid utterances, our country's dear leader is in the dwang again for his assertions regarding the degeneration of African morals and methods of dealing with shit since the introduction of Christianity and colonialism. We must apparently now draw a distinction between "Christianity as a faith", which is apparently ok according to a presidential spokesperson, and "Nefarious Missionary Activities", which are supposedly directly from the White Devil's Handbook Of Subjugation. Nefarious Missionary Activities? Are you fucking SEE-REE-USS? A presidential spokesperson? Doesn't he see how a statement like that can be used against the very president he is trying to defend? Hullo! Shower...! Taxi fare...! "She was asking for it by wearing a short skirt...!" Ok, maybe the president's spokesperson knows he prefers it doggy-style. At least now we know how they spend their days...

Besides, for any proof you may still require that humanity has lost its religious nature, just look around you. "Famine, Pestilence, War, Disease and Death" can all be found, ice-cream in chubby paw, strolling abreast in family sized battalions through Canal Walk. The accessory de jour is the pram, which is employed as a shopping cart, whilst the screaming, sobbing spawn of Satan is being carried, cascading snot and misery down the back of its parent's shoulder.

Can you tell I braved Canal Walk after work yesterday? The most surprising thing of all was not that I was able to ghost between the legions of Fatties 'n' Foreigners, but that I actually found competent service at Look & Listen. I was gobsmacked! Anyway, shopping done with minimum bloodshed and tonight I wrap 'em all up in my bulk discount red wrapping paper with dodgy looking reindeer on that I have been using for the last 6 years. It's very easy to identify which are the gifts from me under the tree.

Not too much longer now, folks. Only 3 days until the music is switched from Christmas to Easter in the malls, with a smattering of Back-To-School and Valentines chucked in to spice things up. Get ready for the onslaught of Lindt chocolate bunnies, Ben 10 pencil cases and edible La Senza. Aw crap! I just gave away the surprise. Now my girlfriend is probably going to figure out what I'm getting her for the 14th of February.

NGDG: "No kid. You can't come talk to me. Not after you peed on my mint julep and keep trying to wash off my tattoo with your grubby hands. And I don't really want to borrow your Ice Age DVD."

Spread The Love. I Hope She Likes Her Ben 10 Pencil Case.


So much to do. So little time. So many things happening on the same night. How do we choose? It's all so damn tempting...

Friday night, more so than most Friday nights, we're spoiled for choice. For those that remember the eighties, with the electro-experi-mental music, the atrociously flamboyant fashion and the tendency for bright colours, there's Way Back To The Eighties - Fizzed Pop (Featuring Gothballs) at Mercury Live and Lounge. You'll be treated to all manner of 80s pop classic upstairs and more than likely get a few giggles with all the dressing up expected to be on parade. Just go watch Wedding Singer to get an idea. Also, DJ Minstrel will be on the decks downstairs spinning all the 80s Goth classics you have come to love retrospectively and that the select few of us with functional memories can actually recall being awkward to at Playground. You'll probably see more than one Siouxsie or Martin Gore...

Which reminds me of another 80s dress up I went to once. JDP went as Boy George and we didn't even recognise him. There were obviously 3 Madonnas, a Cyndi Lauper and a Magnum PI, even JR Ewing if I remember correctly. Then there was me. And TDB. I have long blonde hair. TDB has a long, um... afro, if you will. We went as Guns 'n' Roses, Axl and Slash respectively. He looked fantastic - everyone commented. Me on the other hand, with my red bandanna, knotted fishnet top, ankle boots and hockey-sock-crotch-stuffed white cycling spandex probably looked a sight! I'll let that mental image percolate a while...

Then on Friday we also have the option of going to Pandemonium for an extreme metal party called Iniquity, featuring a top line up of DJs, in conjunction with the Emperor Tribute Show at ROAR upstairs, featuring A Walk With The Wicked, Wildernessking and more. Expect it to get loud!

I might still be Christmas shopping. Or incarcerated for an unfortunate episode of road rage involving a tyre iron and a Vaalie.

NGDG: "When the agent responds to your email in measured legalese, resist calling them 'fucking incompetent' a second time and instead agree with them. Sarcasm is undetectable in law, and giving their every word a racist slant will also bring satisfaction. You're a trustee now. But responsibility isn't the death of fun."

Spread The Love. 'Tis The Season.

Tuesday, December 20, 2011


Go on... you know you want to.

As mentioned in yesterday's post, it's that time of year when a retrospective look over one's shoulder is a pretty decent idea. In this case, it's primarily for your entertainment, but also so I can remember what I got up to. You see, this blog also serves to document the "Suitable For Work" part of my life. And considering I suffer from permanently-shitfaced-amnesia, this has been quite useful. Michael Gira would be proud...

So here is the "latest-wat-uit-is" best of the Monster From The Blog. My Christmas gift to you:

  1. Not a single slinky in sight - a manic tale of celebration and celebrity.

  2. Apparently everyone does Mondays wrong. This explains a lot.

  3. When your average day at the office is a Boner-fied Net Wank.

  4. If only it had been Flesh For Fantasy...

  5. I think Meshuggah said it best. Of course they did. The only way to live.

  6. Don't worry, this "bit between" is not too graphic!

  7. The Seven Deadly Sins of internet use - according to this Ass Badge.

  8. A Challenge. It was all about pie. Unfortunately not the 314 variety.

  9. It's time to shave a line down the middle of your chest hair.

  10. Inspirational. Like American with oversized smiles and pomped up on their own zeal.

  11. It's close enough to Christmas to include my Wishlist here.

  12. Aaaah! Mo'vember Reign! Read this even if it's only for the picture.

  13. A large black man with udders.

  14. Everything's coming to a grinding halt...
And that, ladies and gentlefolk, concludes our object lesson in the human condition - and more importantly - our glorious opportunity to catch up, have a good chuckle and waste a whole bunch of time at work.

[Previous "best of" here.]

Spread The Love. Share My Blog. That's What "Spread The Love" Means! Duh!


Yes folks! Brace yourselves! One of the original members (rights to perform as Boney M in hand) is set to rock our shores once again. Tarty Farty Tequila Party and Sheik Yerbouti are going - in afro wigs and bell bottoms no less! Apparently to get in the groove, or something. I'm sure it's going to be brilliant! Can't wait for the pictures. Kinda makes these last few days before work closes for the Christmas holidays seem even more interminable. Mainly because I'm a sap for Christmas with the family - and my (apparently rather annoying) annual tradition of playing the Boney M Christmas LP*.

Time is molasses. It's the most perfect day in the Mother City and the only people who get to enjoy it are the Vaalies. Undeserving oiks.

At least my spirits will be revived this evening as the almighty Doompah Loompahs convene to play out a wondrous set of DOOM classics. At as few bereavements per minute as humanly possible. Always a fun night. Good laughs. The White Flip Flops will prevail!

Three more days of this leaden crawl to holidays. Then, you'd imagine, it's all about relaxing, putting one's feet up and drinking beer in front of the cricket. Think again. Renovations. Band rehearsals. Vaalie dodging. Family commitments. Braais. I don't think I'll even get a chance to keep this here virtual soap box updated. (Mainly from lack of intrawebs access)...

And speaking of... EVERYONE is currently trolling about, treading the waters of time, until we're released from the shackles of the work environment. If you're THAT bored, why not skim over some of my more popular posts? I compiled a little greatest hits, although I should probably do another more up to date one. Perhaps tomorrow I'll do a retrospective look at the year...

Oh, and a massive shout out to the awesome Ysie Meisie - congrats on your 23rd birthday! Hope you have an awesome day and even better year ahead! (Shit, do you think she'd mind that I revealed her age?)

*LP = Long Player. A flat (usually) black vinyl disc of 12inch diameter. These do not work in CD players or USB ports. Mainly because they don't fit and have analogue information etched into them. They were used to store recorded music before you were born and have since made an underground comeback as the preferred medium for djs with limited taste and who choose to struggle. My Uzi weighs a ton.

NGDG: "I have Angry Birds on my new phone. I'm happier than a big green pig in a rock fortress beset by a single blue jay."

Spread The Love. Less Git Nekkid.

Monday, December 19, 2011


For The Dean

I've seen the future. The future wears Disney themed clothing, gurgles, screams, bounds after terrified pets and is the centre of attention for all gathered. And there are a LOT of them.

Yes, my long weekend was spent in the company or vicinity of children. Lots of them.
Most were in the 7 and under age group, and yesterday thankfully, they were of the early 20s to early 40s persuasion. Sans Disney prints.

Friday started off with a bang. I wish I could say I was being purposely "nudge-nudge-wink-wink" but...
Ran around like a blue arsed fly (never actually seen a blue arsed fly in action, but it's a saying that has stuck with me from my youth nonetheless). Many errands and even some shopping. Here's a tip when entering a monument to consumerism such as Canal Walk. Accept that it may take 3 minutes longer to find parking (the COW packing her Merc full of festive season swag and then NOT vacating her parking whilst blissfully unaware that I was idling away my entire petrol tank patiently with my indicator ever hopefully flashing is going to meet a grim and premature ending if my prayers are answered...) and thrust your hands deep in your pockets as you stroll along and whistle a popular Christmas jingle through you clenched teeth. Worked for me. Got in. Found item. Paid. Got out. No Vaalies were harmed in the purchase of this gift.

Friday afternoon heralded the annual Bimsi's Wonderland Of Mince Pies And Festive Season Pleasantries. Ate myself to near "Seven" type gluttony death, yet somehow failed to ingest even one Mince Pie. Although, come to think of it, that may be a good thing, as this post would then have been more of a rant-piece on how the term "mince" is somewhat misleading. There were lots of children and no boozing. Took a pleasant, seatbelt loosened drive out through the Durbanville Wine Route on the way home and listened to Fetish. Made up for being a responsible driver by spending the evening getting rat-arsed.

Saturday morning was more band practice followed by our long awaited birthday celebration away in the Table Mountain Nature Reserve. I have mentioned that I'm quite fond of my chunk of rock, haven't I? Orangekloof tented resort is the stuff dreams are made of. Entire structures are constructed from removed alien vegetation. Luxury hotel tents are enclosed in wooden structures, the main cabin is big enough to host the entire Wenches And Benches year end function, the showers and bathrooms look out over magnificent vistas and the braai is big enough to plank over and use as a rollerskating rink. The little wooden knives and forks were actually tongue depressers with little indents in them.
We sat with our feet in mountain streams that could turn flowers solid on contact, we gazed wistfully at spectacular sunsets (I was seeing double by then already), we braaied, we consumed our body weight in beer. We added to the untouched splendour and class of the surroundings by reversing my car to the gate, opening the back hatch and pomping the tunes...

The next morning we ate breakfast with sunglasses on. Indoors.

And after packing up we toddled off to that place The Dean calls home. They had been partying even harder and in fact hadn't bothered to stop yet by the time we got there. Now that's dedication. On with the swimming trunks and the sunscreen and flop down on lilo to drift around for a few hours of bacon crispy bliss. Sunday afternoon braais will always be a good idea. We had one. Sunday evenings spent chilling at home with one's better half curled up on the couch are also a good idea. I had one of those too.

Which brings us to today's life-sapping hangover. I don't think I have the reserves to make the week. It's like watching Wally Hayward stumble into the stadium at the end of the Comrades. You just don't know...

NGDG: "Kirstie Alley is the only cast member of Cheers never to cameo on Frasier because, as a Scientologist, a show that 'endorsed psychology' is against her beliefs. Well any dietician will tell you that nuts are high in fat."

Spread The Love. It Always Ends In Screaming. If You're Doing It Right. Or Wrong...

Wednesday, December 14, 2011


Somehow IRREVERENT THURSDAY doesn't have quite the same ring to it, does it?

Let's, for the sake of having to call it something similar because it's the end of the week, cal it FUCKED UP FURSDAY. So, in the spirit of all things fucked up, go and have a gander at this Belgian fellow.

In other news, did anyone check out the @home FaceBoobs page yesterday? If you were quick enough you'd have seen a picture uploaded showing a young lady going down on some lucky dude. Lots of speculation about that. It's incredible how fast news spreads. I can see this becoming a trend. Hack away, hackers! Hack away!

@home - always that step a-head...

I stroked a cat with my mouse hand.

Also, you'll be thrilled to learn that SubVerS is in the process of conjuring up a brand new song. What's perversely unthrilling is that a random name has not yet occurred to us. Something like the "Clothing in Las Vegas" might work, but it's simply not catchy enough. Ha! I have it! It's going to be called "Sweat Shop". Perfect.

Can I have a Hallelujah! for the long weeeekeeend? In a few short hours I will be rid of the shackles of work and enjoying 3 days of haring around trying to do a million things and being everywhere at once. Luckily it all ends with a fantastic brunch and a chilled Sunday with the better half recovering from 2 days of insane revelry.

So have a great long weeeekeeend people. Remember to play it safe. Don't drink and drive. Don't drink and fuck ugly people. Unless you're totally wingmanning. And don't forget that our Presidency and Department of Health are actually fibbing when they claim that vegetables, showers and taxi fare can cure Aids. Be safe.

NGDG: "I'd like to thank Billabong for the marijuana-and-hydrogen-bomb-themed tshirt. Most bizarre roadblock ever - the Officer searched my car for WMDs and drugs and came up sorely disappointed. Even though I had 3 beers at dinner and attempted to evade said roadblock by turning into a closed T-junction, I was set free. Weird. Not being a drug-user, I'd still have searched a dozen nooks he didn't think to look. Amateurs."

Spread The Love. With Your Mouse Hand.


Pic courtesy Rory Molyneux

As if the unnecessary killing of her compatriot wasn't enough of a deterrent (and I do agree with the harshest possible treatment of legitimate drug smugglers, as opposed to unsuspecting mules), some fucking toffee was just bust smuggling cocaine into Thailand IN HER HAIR. 1,5kg of the wonderdust was found woven into this numbskull's dreadlocks. Apparently suspicions were raised when she freaked out after a customs official queried her about her chronic dandruff or something. Whilst one must applaud her ingenuity, she is knowingly carrying an illegal substance across international borders - a substance which has been proven to end up killing the user eventually - after turning then into raggedy toilet explorers.
The poor woman who was executed, on the other hand, had her bounty of illegal snort sauce found in her luggage. Now, unless it was her hand luggage, she had a good point (or at least an arguable defence) when she said "Wuddn't me..." Surely baggage handlers should at least be included in the investigation as suspects.

Which brings me to my question. Drugs are piss easy to make. Any turnip who knows the meaning of the magic litmus paper, or who has ever turned a pool a sinister hue of purple, can make something that'll alter your reality. Follow recipe, cook in glass flasks and add paranoid evil chuckle to taste. Voila!

Why then is there such a booming trade in international smuggling? Is it the exchange rates? Or are the countries with high demand too fucked up on the product to make their own? Surely this should present itself as a viable entrepreneurial opportunity in our cash strapped society? Just saying...

I do not condone the use of illegal draks. Usually drinking vast quantities of booze does the trick. It also doubles as a social lubricant, since I'm no fun when sober. Like most people. For empirical proof, compare the second half of any evening out with the first half.

And speaking of evenings out and being liberally obliterated, the band line-up for Metal4Africa's Summerfest has been made public. Go check it out and make sure you diarise this kiefbrutalepicawesome event. Do not miss out!

NGDG: "I sometimes feel sad the dude is still working at the CD shop but when he says 'you still buying Tom Waits, man?' you know that the service industry is built on folk who remember your tastes and must never leave when they entertain you with bon mots such as 'man, series are like Afrikaans CDs - I can't keep up with that stuff.' "

Spread The Love. Not The Draks.


Remember kids, tune into your (and my) favourite online radio station, Voice Of Rock for the best in Hard Rock and Metal this Christmas. Or check out the website for the best content, including news, reviews and interviews - bringing you everything you need to know about the best bands in the world.

Make the horns with your hands!

Raise them to your head!

Now make like you're one of Santa's reindeer and prance around the room!

So make sure the soundtrack to your holiday is the one that'll get you rocking out like a maniac on those hot summer days. Preferably near a pool with an inexhaustible supply of cold beer and hot women. Or on days like today, to keep your spirits up in this kak weather. Happy holidays all!

Spread The Love. Tune In. Log In. \m/ \m/

Tuesday, December 13, 2011


Everything's coming to a grinding halt. The year - as predicted - has slowed to a snail's pace here in the Mother City. Even more so than usual. Even when the local municipal workers are on a "go even slower" strike. Actually I've noticed that their strikes involve considerably more physical exertion than their everyday working days, what with all that turning rubbish bins out and hopping up and down holding packing cardboard emblazoned with slogan written en Parker ballpoint. It's a good thing no one can actually read them, because the spelling and grammar are usually awkward and atrocious.

Where was I? Oh yes, the year is winding down and with it, my will to accomplish anything of value has dissipated entirely. I can only just manage a half hearted attempt at making it through the day, wishing that the Christmas break was already upon us, so that I can slump into my favourite cricket watching position - completely reclined with a steady supply of beer. With any luck I can convince my girlfriend that this is indeed perfectly acceptable behaviour for our few hours together, her having to work being taken into consideration.

I'm probably being ambitious hoping she'll be bringing the beers at regular intervals as well...

The other thing that screeched actually gave me a pang of delight this morning. On my way to work a black Mini Cooper full of kids resembling the audience at a Locnville performance blasted past me in traffic just as I was aiming to change lanes. This resulted in them being the last car through the traffic lights leaving me to wait my turn (that 2 minutes was very likely to make the difference between late and on time for work). Upon finally getting my turn and proceeding to the next light, there they were, smashed into some ignorant tit that was in the wrong place at the wrong time in the wrong car (it looked like a red Astra or something), smoke billowing from the engine compartment of the Mini and the hooter stuck loudly. I zipped passed this mess and like every responsible citizen made sure everyone was still alive with a cursory glance, more so to avoid that pesky CPR rubbish you're going to get sued over anyway, than out of genuine concern. I then allowed myself a muttered "fokken laaities..." with some smug satisfaction.

Last night's band braai was fun. There may have been a bit of booze involved. Actually, everyone else was stone cold sober, but I'm in "festive mode" and it's like my own private year end function (this time of year, not necessarily just last night). The result was left over braai-broodjies for lunch today. Literally the best thing ever. Besides leftover pizza for lunch. Obviously.

At least I've kept up the tradition of using the internet to keep you all informed of what I had for lunch.

NGDG: "Lethal injection on a budget? Leave the condoms IN the stomach."

Spread The Love. Just Keep It Under Wraps.

Monday, December 12, 2011


If I was Santa, we would definitely have to redefine what exactly constitutes "naughty" vs "nice" behaviour. In my rather limited experience, the naughty can be very nice. Actions AND outfits... Thankfully we do not live in a restrictive era. Imagine the mission it must have been to undo the yards and yards of billowing underwear just to find out you still required the services of a weed whacker. And that was just a few hundred years back. Must have been awful, especially since personal hygiene was also low on the agenda. And no internets! How did they even know what to do?!

So, what did I get up to this weekend, I hear you all asking. Well Friday Tarty Farty Tequila Party was lucky enough to sample some of my now legendary cuisine. A situation reversed last night, when I went over to her new digs to do some DIY. She lives on a road that has the (depends how look at it) most awesome/awkward name ever...

Saturday morning I was treated to an awesome breakfast at Ons Huisie in Blouberg by my better half. Yum. For both... I might as well have been in Mosselbay. I have never ventured further than the lawn of the Blue Peter in that area, so, much like a child that doesn't get out much, there was a constant stream of new stimuli. Then I embarked on what can only be equated to the Corneto Ad on the telly. You know, the one where the dude does all these romantic gestures and gets moered by his mates. We walked, arm-in-arm, hand-in-hand all the way along the beach to Big Bay, which looks nothing like it did in 1992, which is the last time I can remember being there. It's now nothing more than a gaudy mall full of restaurants and no atmosphere.

Then it was time for Axxon practice. The drumkit wasn't available. The drummer was. Cue the first full practice in history featuring "air-drumming". I almost peed myself. Unlike most "air-guitarists" who imagine themselves to be doing a fairly accurate job of mimicking whatever is wafting from the speakers and are sorely mistaken, our drummer actually played along perfectly. But wait there's more. We all went from practice to Terminatryx's CD Launch of their new disc Remyx V1.0. And our drummer won the guitar they were giving away! Scenes of incredulity and high fives all round. Terminatryx put on an intimate show for a selected few guests to showcase some of the new remixes on the album and play some of the more raunchy, original versions - all in all a wonderfully entertaining evening.

Please be aware that when I comment on newsworthy happenings, it's not because I follow the news, it's merely pieced together from comments left on friends' FB walls. I wasn't even aware of SA's latest mule crisis until quickly switching on the telly to see the weather forecast this morning, so don't know the details, but the following comment made by someone I know was priceless and too good not to share: "Doesn't trying to carry 5kg of meth into Red China in your luggage kinda mean you should be a victim of Natural Selection?"

Personally I think it's just a huge misunderstanding in our trade agreement...

Yes folks, it is definitely that time of the year again. A time to toast our achievements. A time to reflect on our failures. And a time to see how many fucking events we can cram into an already overfull calender. Don't you know I can't be at 3 places at once? Don't you know how much trouble i have choosing? Don't you know I suffer from acute Tremendous Missalitis?

At least the roads are a little quieter on the way to work. School is indeed out for Summer. Pity the damn Vaalies are descending en masse. Go away. Unless you're the Meyodies. And one or 2 others...

Speaking of, here's Neal Goldwyer's Daily Gem: "I have a new phone which is as unfathomable as a mechanical loom to a Luddite. I have one contact, but my number remains the same so texts with your name and shoe size are welcome."

Spread The Love. Elsewhere. Bastards.

Friday, December 9, 2011


Heavens NO! Hell YEAH!!!

So far this week I've managed to avoid commenting on the state of our comedy-fodder politics. I present to you the COP17 climate summit. Dignitaries from around the globe congregate in order to spend their vast expense accounts and listen to so-called experts bleat about a meteorological phenomenon no-one can realistically do anything about. Then resolve to do everything about it until next week, when we're back to our loot 'n' burn methods. Our president Zuma, he of the shower/taxi/Lifebouy Zapiro cartoon attacks, was magnanimous enough to engage with some environmentalists activists, who promptly got moered for asking the wrong questions. Or pointing out the obvious flaws in whatever hair brained resolution had been reached. I got bored and stopped reading. The point is it's kak PR to allow the world's press to televise a bunch of para-military thugs putting the boot into a bunch of treehugging hippy crap. Surely the art of diplomacy has taught us to do our dirty deeds behind closed doors. Or have the powers that be just become that blase? And don't get me wrong, I'm all for the environment, I recycle and have a herb garden. It's just that these political schmooze-fests never achieve anything except to annoy everyone. Good intentions. Road to hell. All that. Wankers.

And whilst I'm on a bit of a rant, let's bring up the astonishing state of "service delivery" in our fair land. And I'm not talking about the type of service delivery - or lack thereof - that leads to projectile bricks, burning barricades of tyres (particularly good for the environment), or hopping up and down ululating. I am not in a position to comment because thankfully I do not share these hardships. My gripe is with the shocking level of service in shopping malls. Seeing that it's that time of year we commemorate the greed of the commerce sector, I recently found myself in a boutique shop in a mall. I had struggled to find what I was looking for until the kind lady in the shop offered to manufacture it for me. We'd discussed design and agreed upon a price, and I left very chuffed with the whole situation. After 3 weeks of calling to see when the damn things would be ready for collection I finally got the go ahead to pick them up. Super stoked with the outcome and totally amped to be able to give this amazing gift to someone, I was disgusted to find the price had increased. I queried this and was told bluntly that was what I'd been quoted so take it or leave it. Needless to say they didn't make their sale. The problem I have is twofold. Firstly I come off as some pauper that can't afford to just shrug off the added expense. This, for the record, is not true. Secondly, if this sort of dodgy business ethic is tolerated, it will simply continue. Strike me down for standing up for the principle. What sucks is that I've pretty much cut off my nose to spite my own face and I'm fucking disappointed because the product was so amazing. Still...

So now I'm thoroughly dejected and down. And I have to start the whole ugly process over. Maybe a bit of Elmer Fudd will cheer me up. Here he is with Wabbit SLAYER.

And on that golden note, enjoy your weekends everyone. Remember to avoid drinking at all costs if there's a chance you have to drive anywhere. The price of a taxi is a mere fraction of the cost of legal bills to avoid the Polsmoor Lovefest. The therapy if the legal assistance doesn't work is even more costly and never entirely effective.

There will be roadblocks. There is a zero tolerance stance being adopted. Do not take any chances.

NGDG: "Tonight we're going to drink so hard that all the hard-drinking, hell-fighting gods of history will fall from the sky like effervescent tablets in a watery dusk, leaving only flecks of mud that we'll wipe from our upturned hysterical faces."

Thank you Master Goldwyer! Good Fellas is gonna make a fortune this weekend.

Spread The Love. Show Me Yours And I'll Show You Mine.

Thursday, December 8, 2011


The world and all the scurrying little creatures in it moves at its - and their - own dictated pace. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow, but NEVER in sync with MY pace. When is the world (and all the little scurrying creatures in it) going to realise that it needs to adjust itself to MY pace and not vice verse? I mean, come on!

If it's not some feeble octogenarian hogging the fast lane when I'm late for work, or a gossiping gaggle of tannies at the tills in Checker in Seapoint, then it's people that want something done in record time or, even better, those that don't deliver fast enough.

It's that time of year when the whole world wants to conclude business by the 15th of December so they can get on with the time honoured traditions of sunning their beer boeps around a boerie braai at the cricket, or trying to kill each other on the roads en route to some coastal place where they're not welcome. Dragging their idiotic offspring and silly caravans with them. "Jinne mama. Kyk net daai seun se haar styl!"

I've hit a train-of-thought cul-de-sac...

So tonight is the last Dinner Club of the year. It's a collaborative effort. I still don't know what I'm supposed to be supplying. I took a guess and decided to buy a very large jar of apple sauce (we're having gammon) and promptly forgot to buy it when I went to the shops. Maybe I'll pick something up on the way. I might be in the dwang otherwise...

In other news, today marks the anniversary of the needless and tragic death of a true rock legend. R.I.P. Dimebag - you are still fondly remembered and sorely missed. Wonder what his thoughts would have been on Wubstep.

NGDG: "I would appreciate due warning before the common area has its fecundity enhanced with bovine excrement."

Spread The Love. On A Vaalie. With A Half Brick.

[*Disclaimer: Except the Vaalies I know.]

Wednesday, December 7, 2011


Things I don't like:

  1. Jack Parow is allowed to fuck, and impregnate, Jenna Pietersen.

  2. A colony of necromantic badgers has taken up residence in my mouth and are currently doing a homeless hobo naked version of a pornographic nativity play.

  3. Everything hurts.

  4. The glory-bound Team Burger King was cheated out of winning at last night's LMG Pub Quiz. I smell a conspiratorial rat.

  5. People moan too much when they are offered a variety of entertainment. "You can't please all the people all the time..."

  6. It's raining. In Cape Town. In December.

  7. The fact that I'm actually moaning makes me no better than all the moaning, suburban, entitled little bastards I'm moaning about.

  8. I don't have 'The Cure - Reflections' in my grubby paws yet.

  9. Every time I am asked to compile a wish list for potential gifts, I end up only being able to remember things so rare and exotic that I know no one will ever be able to find them.

  10. I hate it when I am restricted from buying my friends and family Christmas gifts.

  11. Have I mentioned the hangover?

  12. And the rather disappointing 4th place finish at Pub Quiz? (I must add how wonderfully received were the 5 questions I presented.)

  13. Or the fact that we had such a good time despite that, that I can't remember the latter portion of the evening, leaving, being driven home or entering my house?

  14. I am very, very disappointed that the story of the tattoo artist who tattooed a pile of steaming pooh on his (ex)chick's back is a hoax.

  15. I am pissed off that the Audi A5 is beyond my financial grasp.

Things I like:

  1. My new guitar stand.

  2. My girlfriend.

  3. There's a good chance that Fetish will be playing 2 shows in Cape Town. Watch this space...

  4. Die Vegas Show. It's gonna be on MK soon. Check it out.

  5. The new Terminatryx Remyx v1.0 album.

  6. Having mastered basic potty training at a reasonable age.

And on that rather disappointing note, I bid you farewell for another day, safely far enough away from my drivelly drivel.

NGDG: "Why do people quote the classics but read the trash? If one sentence resonates with you, imagine what an entire chapter will do. Yes, let's not get ahead of ourselves here."

Spread The Love. In A Quiet Dark Place For Preference.

Monday, December 5, 2011


Damn! A promising (lucrative) career in law enforcement (evasion) awaits! I have all the credentials. In fact I may just be overqualified, since I totally beat Jackie Selebi at the whole avoiding prison time thing. He used my move. Is no one capable of originality anymore?

Back in the old days when we still had to go to the army, and the rule of law meant that children listened because there was always a more extreme punishment if you didn't, I did my civic duty and trotted off to defend the country. Actually I got shitfaced for a week in Gansbaai and decided in my inebriated state to "join the army, be someone" and a day later found myself in a cattle train on my way to Bloemfontein. Boy was I disappointed when the porter in a brown uniform wouldn't allow me to change my mind and go back home.

Anyway, long story short, the army wasn't for me. Middle aged losers with inferior intellect barking instructions at me in Afrikaans didn't sit well with my religiously held belief that I am, in fact, better than everyone and don't respond well to people lacking in the appropriate levels of respect. Basically I'm as self absorbed as Spongebob Squarepants.

You can imagine then, that I found myself playing truant quite often. At first it started all innocently, booking myself in at the medics with a wildly imaginative array of ailments. I got a LOT of Voltaren injections. This later progressed to full blown forging of Doctor's appointment cards and leisurely breakfasts every day at 3 Military Hospital. One fine autumnal day while strolling back to my barracks for an afternoon snooze and feeling quite chuffed with the ongoing success of my brilliant ruse, I was whisked into a bungalow and warned in hushed tones that every single officer and non-commissioned officer in my entire squadron was desperately trying to find me. I also learned the purpose of this was to send me to Detention Barracks for a period of 3 months without trial. I hightailed it back to 3 Military Hospital quicker than any of those okes in Basics EVER did a 2.4km run (I was usually standing on the side making little stars with my hands...) and busted into the dentist's office declaring an impacted wisdom tooth that required immediate extraction. Of course there was fuck all wrong with my tooth, but I was quite prepared to sacrifice one in order to avoid eating all my meals while running on the spot, cleaning driveways with my toothbrush and building steps in my bed blanket using shoe polish and an iron in the Red Helmet Deathcamp.

I had been informed that the standard practise was to allow 6 days recovery leave for such an operation. I was misinformed. I was pretty unthrilled when the dental butcher cheerfully bade me return to my barracks, without even offering me a lollipop for being a good boy. In a split second, life changing moment of absolute clarity and infinite genius I pulled off the most theatrical swoon/faint/nose dive ever to not have won an Oscar. It was so convincing I was immediately wheeled into the Wounds Ward, where I spent the following week high off my tits on a wonderful concoction known as a Codeine Cocktail - which was administered with every whimper of my continually successful performance. I should have been given flowers.

Instead I was given a nifty piece of paper declaring me mentally challenged by a sympathetic shrink. I love that guy. No one was allowed to make me do anything, but I was still allowed to indulge in my daily Sports Pass, a situation that infuriated my Sergeant Major to distraction. I found it rather amusing. At least the rest of my tenure as a Troep was now relatively comfortable. Of course I didn't take into account that they'd call my mother to inform her of my 2 week stint in the Mental Ward...

Jackie Selebi - you should take notes.

We can discuss your technique next week when I'll be in attendance at the unveiling of Shabir Sheik's Star on the Walk Of Fame. In Benoni. Where all the truly talented actors come from.

I have since honed these acting skills to imitate all the moves of a rockstar guitarist. See pictures of the Industrial Band I play for, Axxon, in the January Issue of Marie Claire. Yes. Marie Claire. The women's fashion magazine. Fuck yeah! Taking over the world!

NGDG: "I cut an entire minute off my route - that's comfortably under 4mins/km now. And just when I was getting fed up and ready to pack it in in favour of booze and girls."

Spread The Love. On Jackie Seleb(rit)i. In The Showers. In Prison.

Friday, December 2, 2011


It has. Believe me. Look at all the comments people leave on each others' cyberwalls, remarks that are designed solely to make the reader believe that the author is a debonair, suave, cynical, jaded and world wise cat. In some cases it serves merely to illustrate what an utter dickhole the author is, or in most cases the tenuous grasp most people have on the correct application of the English language. See what I'm doing here? Where's your wall...?

But let's stick to the importance of Fridays. Fridays are not considered working days by those of us fortunate enough to live full time in the Mother City. Fridays are generally merely considered a minor inconvenient obstacle between Phuza Thursdays and the weekend. No work gets done. No emails get answered. Boozy lunches are the order of the day and rarely does anyone return to work afterwards. One of these days we'll just stay at home and get all our "weekend chores" out of the way on a Friday so we can get to the important business of unadulterated hedonistic pleasure all of Saturday and Sunday. Never mind the laundry.

Seriously though, with the amount of actual work being done in an average working week (for the most part - graphic designers at this time of year don't count) we may as well revert to a 4 day week and a little less time on the intrawebnets for our personal entertainment. Next thing you know, Cosatu has my suggestion my the balls and is lobbying for the abolition of Farmville, Minesweeper and various xxx-rated NSFW sites.

So, as most of you have heard ad nauseum, I have recommenced the torture of trying to rid myself of this here beergut. Cutting down on my beer intake is ludicrous, obviously, so jogging it is then. The favourite pastime of Satanists, paedophiles and unofficial television repo men. It must be doing me some physical good, because I'm in agony. A situation that was exacerbated by last night's fun activity. I was roped into a chain gang helping Tarty Farty Tequila Party paint the inside of her house before moving out. Many hands make light work. My hands, however, are on the end of my considerable wingspan, a result of being roughly 6foot 3. In last night's Chocolate Factory, the rest of my fellow Oompa Loompas weren't much above 5foot 6, not any of them. Guess who Jane Fonda'ed his way up and down, on and off a rickety chair last night doing all the "high" painting no one else had a hope of reaching. I feel like I've just completed a step class administered by Billy Blanks. Using my stomach muscles as a convenient barrier to his TaeBo punching workout. Perhaps a gang of Cape Flats taggers armed with spray cans full of white paint would be a suggestion.

I am also going to suggest a serious bout of retail therapy for myself this weekend. And follow my instructions to the letter. After a nap.

NGDG: "I'm grateful that the parentals have started checking in with me for approval on all extravagant purchases before they squander my inheritance."

Spread The Love. It's Friday. Get Naked.

Thursday, December 1, 2011


Tonight we attend the Paint 'n' Pizza party at the soon-to-be-ex-residence of one times Tarty Farty Tequila Party. She's moving herself and the menagerie of mad mutts to new digs and she requires our help to disguise the evidence of many years spent having a blast in her house. Fuck - there isn't much I won't do for free pizza, even cold pizza - being like sex, you see...

Which begs the question, when did morality take such a fundamental leap to the back of the class? Must have happened in very small increments. I remember actually exclaiming proudly that I would never smoke, yuk! I have now been a non smoker for 2 and a half years after being the poster child for the habit for 22. I remember thinking girls were yucky. I remember a joke about a dude and his first blowjob.

You want to hear it now don't you?

Anyway, let's just say that we have all degenerated into demented, perverse, sexually predatory beings after having started out all shiny and new and innocent. Personally I blame Samantha from Sex & The City. And perhaps my vast porn collection. And a string of exceptionally permissive young ladies in my past. I must make a point of thanking my maker more often.

Anyway, back to the point. Besides not being able to drink legally and looking kinda dorky, don't you long for those far simpler days when you had no responsibility, you were forced to nap every afternoon, you had no idea what you were missing out on, you didn't have to worry about what you wore, you had no debt, no mortgage, no worries about job security, no nagging partner and your friends didn't live inside the computer?

I know I do.

Here are some things I'd do if I could go back:

  1. I'd be the guy lifting little girls' skirts and not the doos who got blamed for it without the benefit of ogling the bounty.

  2. I'd take those guitar lessons offered me all my life instead of deeming them exclusively for moffies.

  3. There are a number of girls in highschool I would try my best NOT to pine over unnecessarily. (Jeesh I wasted SO MANY years of my life...)

  4. I would use the Clearasil more regularly.

  5. I'd make the switch from Speedo to Baggie YEARS earlier.

Strangely there isn't much else I'd change given the chance. It stands to reason I'd be the smoothest pimp Daddy motherfucker in highschool, though. Obviously. Awkward gangly collection of limbs and shrill voice notwithstanding. They say it's all about your attitude. I've watched enough sitcom/romcom dating advice in my time. Behold: The Lesser Known Warbling Spotted Albino Carpenter's Ruler. With Supreme Confidence And Macking The Ladies!

6. I'd videotape my ass trying to be superfly for effective therapy from work related depression many years down the line. I could probably sell copies en masse and make my fortune.

Anyway, about to drag my unwilling carcass around the running circuit again this afternoon. I'd like to know how it's possible to have more pain the the day after the day after strenuous exercise. Let's hope I make it.

NGDG: "I don't buy into the whole vegan mindset but why do the kids scoffing ribs at restaurants always look a bit Down Syndrome?"

Spread The Love. Along With The Rib Sauce. Down Your Cheeks. Yes. THOSE Cheeks...

Wednesday, November 30, 2011


Fuck me.

I need a crash course in local politicking. Otherwise known as evading prosecution. Otherwise known as being an utter douchebag.

Now whilst those of you that know me personally are probably all already fingering the "Leave comments" tab and thinking how to rhyme "But you already are one" with something witty, allow me to elaborate.

When living in community of property with a sweet, beautiful, gorgeous, caring, wonderful woman, it never really occurs to either party to keep ironclad records of the to-and-fro flow of money. Yes, every now and then in a rare moment of clarity, when you're not all loved up and gooey-eyed, you may jot down "I paid for that" or "I owe you for this" when one of you plays the financial equivalent of "No, YOU hang up!"...

However that is usually the total extent of your book keeping.

Once the emotions of a break up are dealt with and the dust has settled, very often unfinished "business" has to be attended to. Unfortunately this very often leads to a case of the other party's word or vague recollection vs your own. Rarely are both sides of the equation as magnanimous after a split as they were before it. Well folks, there goes the romance, from now on you get the "Monster From The Blog - Bean Counter Edition v6.66". Any flirtations with romantic notions or ANY other expense incurred will now be filed immediately, in triplicate, in blood. And duly notarised by a party authorised to do so. In triplicate. Could make that spontaneous "I love you let's get home and check it out but it's more for you than for me and no I don't want it near my bum" dildo acquisition lose its spur of the moment appeal.

Speaking of losing appeals, I wonder how Juju, Mac and the boys are doing. Must be awesome being the sole fodder for Fame! You bitch. I should take notes...

[*Disclaimer: Please do not let the above dissuade you from pursuing a beautiful and fulfilling union. That, or get you an old rich dude with a bum ticker and keep it very one sided...]

NGDG: "It's nearly impossible to fire someone nowadays with these labour laws. Most companies instead bring in HVAC and Hygiene consultants to either freeze employees to death or poison them with hazardous chemicals."

Spread The Love. But For Fuck's Sake Keep Thorough Records. In Triplicate.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011


I'm constantly astounded at what makes people tick. Luckily though, we're not like that dead dude in Hellboy who was made of clockwork, sand and a cool uniform. I'm talking more about the wonderful variety of tastes and opinions on display across the spectrum of humanity.

Before this degenerates into a philosophical piece, I'd better stop it there. I'm nowhere near drunk enough to have this conversation with all of you. And by that I mean with myself, because I have to complete the series of random thoughts, convert them clumsily into text via the "computer" and then hit "publish post", by which time it is usually too late to entertain arguments to the contrary. So let's call it an opinion piece.

Unfortunately when one is babbling on one is bound to run out of steam at some point and the end result is me sitting with my thumbs lodged firmly up my arse and without an opinion right now. On anything. A rarity. Also, it makes typing quite a challenge. Well, there is always the logical fall back of music, but I've blathered on enough about that today already. Unless you count the awesome news that Paradise Lost are releasing a DVD/CD of their live performance of all the songs off Draconian Times recently in London. Salivate. And next year we'll be treated to their new album (they're in studio now) called 'Tragic Idol'...

Anyone for a preview?

So how's this weather? I'm almost on my way to a nice leisurely few laps of the cricket oval and then a relaxing little game of football. Or should I say murderous masochism and an evening of agony? I tried this whole getting in shape thing before, with gut-busting results. I'll put a six pack in the fridge, closest I'm getting today I'm afraid.

So after all that I've committed myself ("too late!" I hear you cry) to a spot of retail therapy. I can just see it now. I'll get there and gingerly lever myself out of the car only to find there's nothing I want to buy all evening. Oh well. There'll be consolation drinks with any luck.

NGDG: "So our friend Juli-arse finally admits hes finished politically and contemplates becoming a cattle farmer. Time for a rousing chorus of 'Kill The Farmer' methinks."

Spread The Love. Deep Heat Is No Good As A Lubricant.

Monday, November 28, 2011


What a wonderful weekend. I was left largely to my own devices for most of it. As promised to the world of FaeceBoobs, I punished the face off of the beers waiting for me when I got home after work on Friday. Goes hand in hand with the fire I started (how very Billy Joel of me...) and then I set about making the second best potjie ever made.

*Remember I won the competition at Tarty Farty Tequila Party's birthday get away - it was a clandestine Demonic Sibling Wolfpack collaboration.

Anyway, Saturday morning I bade farewell to the better half and got on with the serious business of doing as little as possible. Until the lovable legions of Axxon pulled in for a rehearsal. Then it was down to business, with an exceptional performance by vocalist and resident miserable git, Cevin (Off) Key Ng. It's not a very good alias, but I must protect the identity of those of whom I write. People's right to privacy is enshrined in the Constitution we all hold so dear.

Anyway, my stomach hurt for all the right reasons. Make of that what you will...

The rest of the weekend went by in a haze of books and movies until this morning, well rested and ready to take on the week, I realised with utter horror that I was in fact well rested and ready to take on the week. There goes my time honoured excuse of being permanently exhausted and hungover/drunk. There is now added to the weight of all the work that's not getting done a healthy dose of guilt as well. Tonight I DRINK! Rose Thorn is preparing a healthy and nutritious meal for us (me and TDB) and I'm sure a glass or few of wine will not be amiss.

Summer is here! I know this because I am sitting in an ill-advised ensemble which includes long pants, socks and sneakers, as opposed to the usual outfit of baggies and flip flops (usually the white flip flops of DOOOOM). Tomorrow I make the annual switch from my winter wardrobe to my summer one. Residents of the Mother City be warned. Only industrial strength arc-welding masks will suffice to keep your vision in working order.

My legs are about to be unleashed!

And by legs I of course mean fluorescent light tubes.

Plans for the rest of the week include me rejoining the football and starting running again. Expect tales of pain and unfathomable suffering over the course of the next few days. I've run out of excuses and now's the time. Must get in shape for the 3 times I am likely to make it anywhere near a beach this summer.

NGDG: "I'm amazed to discover that life is not a movie. Or that it's a Scandinavian movie with where everything is pointless and everyone dies."

Spread The Love. And The Sunblock.

Friday, November 25, 2011


eFiling done! Thank you and good night! And good riddance til next year...

In the spirit of never quite doing what you'd expect, today we keep it nice n short. Mainly because it's Friday afternoon in the Mother City and she's at her glorious best this afternoon. So I'm gonna drag my arse on over to the outdoors Conference Room, overlooking the Atlantic and have a meeting. Aw, but that sucks I hear you cry! Au contraire, mon frere. When I say meeting, I mean sit down and schmooze with cool musos and stuff. I love my job...

But enough about me, what about you? Here is a little something to get your weekend started on the right, ahem, note: Guide to singing the South African National Anthem Enjoy!

NGDG: "I'm dancing to stuff I don't even know at the work year-end function and may have said to the waiter more than once 'we've just run out of wine, what are we going to do about it?!' "

Spread The Love. Love Is All You Need. Well, And Booze. And Draks, If You're My DrHellCuz...

Thursday, November 24, 2011


So today I have to submit my Income Tax Return to the South African Revenue Service. The tax collector was one of the most hated characters as far back as 2000 years ago and probably well beyond. One rogue crept into our hearts by stealing from the rich and redistributing the wealth among the poor. I have no issue with contributing to the society in which I live or even to help in the betterment of those less fortunate. I, like so many other honest tax payers though, question the wholehearted honesty and supposed transparency regarding the use of our tax rands. The poor stay poor, the rich get rich. It is with a begrudging sense of getting royally fucked over that I hand over an extortionate proportion of my monthly income to the bandits in charge.

Goes to show, if you dress up your shitty ineptitude or raging greed in a nice suit (let's not be sexist here, you can also dress it up in a very ostentatious, bright, gaudy, ill-fitting dress and hat combo), people tend to go along with the charade. But the minute you don the green tights you're branded an outlaw and a brigand.

But I digress. The aim of this missive was actually to say nice things. I LOVE efiling. It has made my life infinitely easier and the dreaded act of submitting my Tax Return far simpler and, dare I say it, even convenient... The level of civilisation in a country can not only be measured by the standard of its prisons or the way the people treat their animals (in both cases we're screwed) but by how painless the government makes it for us to give them all our money. One out of three ain't bad.

I'm actually procrastinating now. I should log in using the awesome porn star password SARS allowed me to use and just get it over with. Yet even though the process has now become easier than taking candy from a baby, I still hesitate. Why? Perhaps it's my intense loathing of admin.

Anyway, in an astonishing development, I have sweet fuck all else to report.

NGDG: "I'm not famous, but if I were and was approached by the Chinese factory responsible for manufacturing this kiddies' butterfly-catching net, I'd gladly endorse it for its unrivalled superiority in catch-and-release Parktown Prawn problem resolution technology. My nerves this season are saved!"

Spread The Love. Redistribute The Wealth. Because You NEED A New Bulletproof Beemer.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011


Pic courtesy of James Porky Davies.

As you are all no doubt aware, those of you not living under a rock, a bridge or a tunnel, it is Mo'vember, a month dedicated to cultivating a lush outcrop of facial hair on one's upper lip. This practice is in aid of raising awareness of prostate and testicular cancer, raise money for the combat or treatment thereof, and should be restricted to men.

As men around the globe sport a snorr-gasbord of variety on this theme under their very noses, I have unfortunately been forced to bail out of the idea. I thought I could cheat and just stop shaving, and trust me, this idea was met with wild enthusiasm. I hate shaving and am infinitely grateful for a job that doesn't insist on me being well presented. So I let myself go and used the excuse "I'm growing a moustache, but I'm also growing a beard at the same time". You see, for those of you that don't know me personally (thank your lucky stars) I am blonde to the point of inflicting arc-eyes on anyone in my general vicinity. This poses a problem when one is faced with the prospect of a moustache sans accompanying beard. Simply put, I look like a kid who's just gulped down all the milk. Or a Swedish paedophile. Neither is a good look for me and with my already dangerous levels of narcissism, this is obviously not going to fly. So when the whole Santa Claus thing got a bit much the other day and I started getting the whole "scruffy itchy" I decided, "ah fuck it, lemme shave the beard off and see how bad it's gonna look".

I last had a moustache in the army. Everyone laughed then as well.

I felt almost embarrassed. I laughed so hard at this blonde moustachioed idiot in the mirror, I just couldn't breathe after a while. Thank all that is holy I wasn't required to go out in public to attend to some sudden emergency! To make matters worse, the laughing turned me an alarming fire engine red, making the already luminescent white paedo-stache look even more milky-way maniacal by way of added contrast. Like a slash of Tippex on a ripe tomato...

It didn't last long. As soon as I stopped convulsing with laughter and my hand was steady enough, it was unceremoniously sheared. Until next year.

The entire point of this exercise, though, is to encourage us men to go and have ourselves checked out. Now, I don't know about you, but when the school nurse "checked you for a hernia" and instructed you to cough, I felt utterly violated and couldn't wait to get my school issue navy blue underpants back to their rightful place, covering my privates. Similarly, the physical in the army was equally invasive and holds no fond memories. So booking myself in for some Cuba-educated "doctor" to inspect my balls doesn't fill me with elation. Don't even get me started on the prostate and the only available avenue of exploration... I can just hear the rubber glove snapping against a wrist - the stuff nightmares are made of!

I wonder if I can convince my girlfriend to study nursing, so she can inspect the collection of dangly bits for insidious lumps. Voila! Problem solved. Actually 2 birds. She'll get the outfit as well. I must make a mental note to discuss this with her.

On second thoughts it's a kak idea. These days all they teach is toyi-toying and basic healthcare neglect.

NGDG: "This is gonna sound totally Hipster but: I feel so superior to all the Johnny-come-latelys. Man! I hated the ANC when they were still underground."

Spread The Love. Check Each Other For Cancer.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011


Did you know. Queen Victoria probably had a few naughty little secrets of her own. Perhaps even some that pertained to her monarchy. Certainly a few "personal" ones that are better left behind closed doors. And strangely, the British Isles, its people, and "procreation of a chinless society" still thrive...

The huge outcry about the proposed State Secrecy Bill is then our topic for the day. Our openly corrupt government is proposing to push through legislation that allows them to gag the media should they get their equally grubby paws on sensitive information. In today's world, when selling broadsheets is becoming increasingly difficult, and sensationalism reigns, the market for sordid tidbits is flooded due to our ease of access to information. I agree wholeheartedly that those that actively steal, embezzle or enrich their cronies should be named, shamed and held accountable. Wearing black is probably not going to stop the 264 ANC MPs under direct orders (threats against their cushy "jobs") to attend parliament today and vote along party lines, or ELSE...

The only difference is that now we won't choke on our morning coffee in outrage at another scandal.

And finally maybe Gareth Cliff will shut the fuck up because he has nothing on which to make his banal commentary.

Besides, we have a little thing called THE Constitution. Upheld by something called a Constitutional Court. I'm dead sure the opposition parties, the outraged masses and all their domestic servants will make that their next stop.

And for what? Whilst I agree that the media should have the right to deliver the news in a free and fair manner in a free and fair country, one must stop to accept these considerations: Nothing in life is free. And nothing in life is fair either. Our dear mate and neighbour to the North, Uncle Rob Mugabe still rules with an iron fist, pillaging his country's rapidly dwindling resources with a baldfacedness that should boggle the minds of the at-least-semi-literate. Yet he remains in power. His people have not demanded someone replace him. Yes, there are some who would oppose him, but if the entire nation was gatvol of him, he wouldn't be there anymore. So it goes. So our lot will carry on with their 'tender loving corruption' until we're bled dry and, quite frankly, I don't see them giving a rat's arse if Die Beeld bleats about it or not. They're having a fat laugh at the entire proletariat anyway.

And as a very wise friend of mine pointed out: "The secrecy bill is a long time coming. Let's take a break from Farmville and rant about it on the day it is passed." Well said, sir. If it was so earth shattering, surely we should have mobilised our finest black outfits ages ago?

Here's a question. Is it as effective at stopping archaic bills getting passed if you accidentally put on light grey sport socks? And what about your underwear? Are all the ladies wearing yummy little black lacy numbers under their 'appalled apparel'? Maybe some things should be kept a secret...

At least it's refreshing to see that people still care.

Reminds me of my favourite line from one of My Dying Bride's classic songs, 'The Sexuality Of Bereavement': "Secrecy fosters Passion".

NGDG: "I think I'm going to start eating cereal for dinner. At least you know what you're getting."

Sounds like someone should embrace the righteous path to Martha Stewart and the Infinite Enlightenment.

Spread The Love. With Some Victoria's Secret. Preferably In Black.

Sunday, November 20, 2011


For DrHellCuz

In the mornings as I drive to work (and this will show you just what a creature of routine I really am) I pass a woman running up towards High Level Road. Every morning. At about the same spot. With her iPod plugged in. In slippers. I shit you not. In freakin' slippers. Of the floppy moccasin variety. Proper jogging, at pace, up one of the most gruelling inclines known to man. Without stopping to take in the view or hack up a lung. In.her.slippers...

Then, when I get to work, among the sites I have to check out as part of my morning routine, you will find a hilarious collection of Texts From Last Night. Today's favourite is : "She made a roadhead CD. Can I marry her?"

Claudia Mohr. Saturday evening. The Fugard Theatre. Sensational. To witness a bunch of musicians of such calibre enjoying themselves so much and royally entertaining us all at the same time was a truly wonderful experience. Claudia's songs are well written and intelligent. They hit the right notes (both musically and existentially) at the right times. Her band is a collection of eclectic and excellent musos that add just as much to proceedings as Claudia herself.

Charles Knighton-Pullin (of Sabretooth fame) on lead guitar (in tasseled leather pants) is also responsible for the musical direction of this project and in doing so has established himself as not only the virtuoso guitarist we all know him to be, but also multi-talented musical master. Kyle Gray (of Fox Comet and Witness To Wolves) lends his own particular energy to this sublime set of songs, a drummer with boundless enthusiasm and a remarkable and uniquely talented individual. Nick Catto (also of Fox Comet) slyly gets on with the business of keeping it all stitched together with a beautifully understated and brilliant ease, peering at the audience from behind a mischievous grin. The back up divas add spice and sass to the show and the special guests on percussion and vocals certainly were the cherry on top of an amazing evening's entertainment. In a rare moment of forgetting they were from Cape Town, the audience even stood up from their chairs, clapping and boogieing along, some even getting down in the aisles! The set closer 'African Hello' (before the inevitable encore) was a song of such obvious single potential, I'd be surprised if Claudia Mohr isn't a household name shortly. Watch out for this incredibly talented singer/songwriter. THIS is what local musicians should be striving for. Never mind the bollocks... in the parlance of the 'biz.

Another thing that made my weekend was seeing a truly unique football goal scoring celebration. The Clever Boys were playing The Buccaneers (Wits University vs Orlando Pirates) in a David vs Goliath clash this weekend, Pirates being the overwhelming favourites and one of the biggest - if not THE biggest - glamour clubs in our Premiere League. Ryan Chapman scored a brace in the second half to seal the 3 - 1 win for the Clever Boys and in celebrating his goals, ran over to the fans, made the arms crossed in an "X" (which signifies "Pirates for life!") and then tore the sign apart by flinging his arms to the side. Brilliant!

So. Monday it is then. Traditionally I moan. I suppose I can complain about the Aussies looking like they are on their way to a test victory, but given the history of this game, I think I'll harbour secret hopes...

NGDG: "I haven't the vaguest idea what I get up to after lights out. Though the sheets be crisp, the pillows plump and the room conducive to rest, nocturnal crime-fighting, unconscious witching-hour-origami or sleep paso doble, will ensure I probably feel like a zombie regardless."

Spread The Love. Mainly Because I Like Four Letter Words.

Friday, November 18, 2011


I think we've all had enough shit for one week. Get rid of the Pooh!

What a day in the Mother City! What? You're already gatvol of me going on about how lucky we are in Cape Town? Leave. It's glorious and I'm selfish! Except for Shannon. You stay. We finish M5.

And on top of all that it's Irreverent Friday! Whoohoo! Unless you're the DrHellCuz or any other member of the PIE massive, or even the Snipple. Or for that matter anyone else who believes in FRASH MERRILL FRIDAY. In an online 'discussion' this morning we got into the classification of Machine Head. For the record, Machine Head is NOT FRASH MERRILL. It's got a far more "hardcore" base derived from bands like Biohazard, etc. FRASH MERRILL is quintessentially characterised by the first 4 Metallica albums and most of what Megadeff did. See also: Anthrax.

That was before all this sub-sub-sub-sub-sub-genre nonsense existed. Because now in order to stand out it is no longer required of you as a musician to be any good , rather it is expected of you be different. Doesn't bode well for the future, does it? In fact, modern "musicians" seem to be suffering even further from a modern lament of society, that of the "virtual inability to read or write", blatantly having misread or misunderstood sub-sub-sub-sub-sub-genre and delivering to us (to our eternal damnation) something known as the wub-wub-wub-wub-wub-genre.

So tonight, in order to cleanse the spirit,, the soul and the ears from the sonic dumping ground that is modern life, I retreat along with the "likemindeds" to Kommetjie for a spot of booze, braai and staring-wistfully-to-the-sea-and-pretending-to-have-a-spiritual-moment. Or mainly-try-to-avoid-getting-my-shoes-wet.

Tomorrow I find myself back at the Fugard Theatre to check out the dulcet tones of one Claudia Mohr, who is performing to mark the occasion of her CD Launch. It's such an amazing venue, I'm genuinely excited! Must remember to take along my mortgage papers, I may want to buy a beer.

NGDG: "The difference between investing in property and investing in equities is that you'll not find a cracker squatting on your portfolio."

Spread The Love. You Put Pictures Of Dead Animals. I Put Pictures Of Pooh In Water.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011



Shirt, not biscuits. Soggy biscuits is something entirely different. Look it up - I dare you.

Oh what a tangled web we weave. Just in general. You don't even have to be particularly deceitful or anything. Just take a look at the shitty state of everything around you...

It seems EMI, the world renowned record company, and one of the "big 4" majors, is being bought by the Russian. Someone should inform them that the Cold War is over and that the catchy ethereal-pop act Enigma is not the famous encryption device from WWII.

What would you rather be doing right this minute? Hand DOWN, DrHellCuz! This is a family programme...

I - among a lot of other things - would love to be standing around a braai, quaffing beer after ice cold beer, surrounded by mates, watching the cricket and generally not having a care in the world. Days like today make it worse as we are so close to idyllic paradise here in the Mother City, that it's actually unfair on us. I can SEE the ocean from my office. Having a view is sometimes cruel and counterproductive.

As opposed to having a viewpoint. I have many.

But let's leave my opinion of life, love and everything else alone for today, and enjoy the sunshine, cold beer and cricket. Can you guess who is a mere hour from leaving work? Huh?

NGDG: "I just narrowly escaped arrst by begging the officer for a fine instead. How's your morning?"

Spread The Love. Love The Spread.


Good afternoon from a wonderfully warm and sunshiny Cape Town. The Mother City is as beautiful as ever and the mountain is now officially a Top 7 whatsimicallit. What the fuck ever...

This means only 2 things. One. The people responsible for the voting scam have made an inordinate amount of money off the people that cast their multiple votes.

And two. That I now have to try extra hard to perpetu-hate the stereo-type that is the resident Capetonian during tourist season.

Whilst I am all for the revenue created by a steady stream of Nikon toting, sock'n'sandal wearing oglers, I sincerely dislike the fact that I have to share my paradise with anyone. There are the obvious exceptions. Anyone I know personally is fine. And as for the Jhb contingent (even more foreign then foreign). I could quite happily have the Meyodies, DrHellCuz and the inimitable Neal Goldwyer here as much as they'd like. And my real Lil Cuz. And Shannon Hope from Durban-by-the-sea.

My attitude is not exclusive to myself. This is why everyone thinks we're so unfriendly and downright rude. Because we are. We're forced to be. Imagine the influx of wanktards were we to be more welcoming. Or learn to drive...

There should also be a minimum period of time after "immigrating" to the Cape before you may consider yourself a local. Included in the "Caping" of yourself, certain aspects of your lifestyle should have to undergo some obligatory alteration. Like your incessant work ethic. Chill.the.fuck.out.

Also, you may want to revise your insistence on wearing pink pop-up-collar golf shirts, white trousers and leather moccasins. You will probably have to go out and purchase a few must-have fashion accessories like the following: A jihad scarf, a trilby hat and a pair of Wayfarers. Face it Pancho, if you were wearing the pink and white ensemble you were, are, and always will be a douche-badge. This way at least you'll blend in with our local arty crowd...

Last night The Cure played their Reflections show in London. People I know went. I want to be them. Utter bastards. There aren't enough expletives in the known Universe to sufficiently convey my jealousy. And in even more earth shattering news, Sheik Yerbouti is now too on the righteous path to domestic enlightenment. Which means that, since I dished out some advice yesterday, I'm elevated to some advanced zen-like Master-Martha level of consciousness.

Final conquests beckon!

NGDG: "I cannot sit at a bar without being a weirdo magnet. You'd think being your own kind of weird would protect you by the law of osmosis."

Spread The Love. Unless You're Confronted With Foreigners... Or Foreigner.