THE NEW RULES

This post concerns itself with the New Rules. For now we will limit the discussion to the New Rules as they apply to writing a blog post, and they are as follows:

1. Troll the intrawebs for a ridiculous/funny/obnoxious/sexual/retarded picture.


2. Stick picture at top of post.


3. Make shit up as you go along.


4. Be sure to include a link to Tarty Farty Tequila Party...


5. Make some more shit up.


6. Write it all down and format into conveniently numbered bullet points.


7. Add another point to see how far you can stretch the patience of your readers.


8. Comment on how ridiculous/funny/obnoxious/sexual/retarded the picture is that you posted.


9. Note how the picture has nothing to do with the content of the post.


10. End off with a final point using the words "and in conclusion."

On a more serious note, there are apparently rules governing the behaviour of ex partners, and they,laconically, are like so:

1. Run away.


2. Find instant gratification in another state.


3. Sever all ties.


4. Lie.

On to more rosy subject matter, then...

Tonight, a few intrepid friends and I are going to brave the Arctic conditions and play our usual Tuesday evening football game. Afterwards we have been invited for a culinary delight and a boozy reward. That's right! Tarty Farty Tequila Party is cooking Soccer Supper for the lads! This can only end badly... Although apparently she has done the dishes.

And in even more news. I have so far managed to evade the greasy, grimy, corrupt clutches of the Traffic Authorities. Let us all hope and pray that this remains the case. Roadblock schmoadblock!

Also, due to communication breakdown, Rose Thorn cooked stew for dinner last night. I now have enough stew in my home to feed the five thousand. And considering I'm eating out tonight and Thursday, I might just look like stew by the end of next week!

As long as I don't look like my mate Stew, I suppose it's all good. That could get confusing.

And in conclusion, Spread The Love...

WHAT DID YOU GET UP TO THIS WEEKEND?

I BET you you didn't ride a pink horse. Life would have been sooo sweet if you had though...

Well, I hope you all had a great weekend. Hope you got to live out your fantasies. Or drown your sorrows, whichever is the most applicable.

My weekend was quite good, thanks for asking. Boys Braai on Saturday afternoon was chilled and included some (apparently) R45 a shot Kentucky Bourbon. The evening was spent watching a fantastically one sided football match. Unfortunately I am a Man Utd supporter. My mood on getting to my Brother In Awe's birthday party was dismal. Luckily the room was full of friends and enough booze to cater a Tony Yengeni release-from-prison party.

Tart was there in all her hedonistic glory, offering people shots from the coolest shot paddle ever made, and then thumping people on the arse with it. Cue much gleeful shrieking. I woke up the next morning on the 'Futon Of A 1000 Aches' and proceeded to gingerly make my way home.

Gathering up all the courage I could muster I donned the work clothes and started the arduous process of tiling the rest of the kitchen. You could tell I have been putting this off for a while because I couldn't find the tile adhesive or the grouting. Mad dash off to Builders Warehouse and wouldn't you know it... there in all it's splendour as I walk in the door back at my house, is the effing tile adhesive. Oh well, now I definitely have enough.

After much drilling, tiling and standing back and admiring my handiwork between bouts of prolific profanity, it was time to pack up and watch Top Gear, a Sunday tradition.

Then it was time to make dinner. I have recently become seemingly proficient at stews so decided to try my hand at the Irish variety. I think. Tick [proficient] and move up to [fantastical wonder chef]...

And then there was this morning. All these desperate reports of roadblocks scaring the life out of the general public, especially me, considering I view paying a speeding fine with the same special contempt reserved for TV Licences. I came in to work on the weekend and paid every outstanding fine on payfine.co.za, but I'm sure they missed a few. In fact I know they missed a few...

I even went and got my Dad's bakkie, seeing as the offences against my name would be picked up using one of those licence-plate-identifying-gizmos and my Dad's car is "clean".

Then, to make absolutely sure I took the long way to work. Via Hout Bay.

Well, FUCK ME if they didn't have a roadblock this morning! Bastard swine! And nothing in the news either.

I think I'm taking the pink speed stead to work tomorrow.

Oh yes, and I am now a qualified meteoroligist. Like that oke from eTV, Derek Van Dam I'm Fine! I can tell you why it is storming. Anti-B-Logger actually blogged....

Spread The Love. And If You See A Traffic Official, Spread It Head On At High Speed.

MINISTER MONSTER

"Congregation, please be seated. And open your prayer guides to the book of Revelations. Psalm 69... 69... 69... 69... 69..."

Yup you guessed it dear reader! It's Minister Monster's 69th post. 69 increasingly daft rantings that YOU tune in to read every day! Wonder what sort of subject matter this number is likely to conjure up amongst this blogger's rabid following...

Ah, the ubiquitous 69. The number most notably associated with a very "sharing and caring" sexual activity (technically it's a position, but I'm sure most of you knew that already - if you didn't, you have no business here).

Firstly, hats off to the couple that first thought to themselves "hang about, what if we did this to each other?... how rad would that be?!?!"

As opposed to the obviously well worn and tried-n-trusted version of "your turn, then my turn..." Now that is all good and well. Especially when it is 2 people completely obsessed with pleasing each other. Little wonder then, that it became an entity of simultaneous stimulation. Bless their over eager little hearts.

It has since obviously become the single most notorious number in the Western lexicon, possibly even in those parts of the world where they read the other way or indulge in a lot of vodka consumption. Obviously the act it refers to so accurately is not limited in application to the washed West, I'm sure that filth and smut has reached even the farthest corner of the globe. In fact, I am relatively convinced that the more out of touch you are with the world, the more depraved your sexual ardour is bound to become. Just look at the Australians.

Aaaaaaaand on that note, Happy Irreverent Friday one and all! Hope you all have a weekend positively bursting with activities loosely connected with your favourite and mine, the humble 69...

Spread The Love. 69... 69... 69...

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

Alfred Hitchcock could write really well. One particular piece leaps to mind as being the most terrifying of all time...

I was driving to work this morning, probably for the last time considering my library of unpaid fines and a nefarious plot to bring myself and other similar culprits to book, when it occurred to me that I have quite a few friends who are also very gifted at this writing thing.

Some blog, some review, but they're all pretty damn eloquent and talented. Birds of a feather if you will. The similarities don't stop there. Think of actual birds as small mobile stationers. In the same way as horses could be viewed as potential glue factories. And before you start spitting venom at your screen, I am simply highlighting the fact that birds are in fact made out of the writing implement known as a quill. And all animals are still useful even in their afterlives.

And anyone who knows me knows very well that the best kind of bird is a dead bird. Acute ornaphibia is a bitch...

Anyway, back to the point. For those of you that enjoy a good read, rant or recipe, or simply have stuff all better with which to fill your days, go and check the following peeps out:

The irrepressible Tequila Tart. (Read entire blog)

The moody and DOOMY Music Opinion Guy. (One review example - go look for others)

The wonderfully talented Weekend Wizzard. (Facebook link - there's a blogsite as well)

The motivational moaning of Ninhydrin.

Author and editor of note Nerine Dorman.

THE Snipple.

Next week I compile the considerable list of talented people that do things like photography and make films. Home porn submissions welcome.

Also, yours truly has been known to jot down a few thoughts, go check out the back catalogue of posts. You can even catch a review (once again - this is only one example) for Voice Of Rock.

Shameless. I know. Given my current aptitude towards self-help, it's entirely forgivable.

Spread The Love. Shamelessly. Literally. And Literary.

IT'S GONNA BE A LONG (LEG HAIR) WINTER

Again. As it is every year.

Here's the question. Is it just women who have successfully entrenched themselves in our lives that stop shaving for the hibernation months? Or is it all of them? Even the ones looking to attract a male of the species so that they can then start entrenching themselves in our lives?

This makes limited sense. It's entirely understandable that all women shave during Summer. We live in Africa and most of the time it is entirely appropriate to dress like the poor dear above. Shame she doesn't even have any shoes...

But as soon as Winter strikes, women take complete advantage of the fact that their legs will be covered for much more of the time. Which means shaving is for their satisfaction and not that of their significant other, who happens to share a bed with the naked legged tarantula. I've even heard that when you are in a relationship, it is fair to assume you're allowed to have this sex thing, especially in Winter. Tarantula legs are not so sexy, you see...

Which means leg shaving, logically, is for the benefit of those who do the looking at and fondling of, the legs.

I think I have sufficiently confused myself now. All I hope is that the next person that disrobes in front of me (Oh please let it be a girl! Oh please let it be a girl!) has had the forethought to shave the Winter stubble. Otherwise, long cold Winter, here we come!

Actually, I hate shaving more than any woman, so I understand. But let's be honest. Being prepared will get you a long way.

Spread The Love. And The Veet.

FRUITFLY AND MULTIPLE

If you didn't know any better, you'd think I was referring to a new kiddies program on the BBC, wouldn't you?

Some sort of educational program involving a household pest instructing our impressionable youth on the times tables... But you very well know it as an instruction from the Good Book, when mankind was issued forth into the world to be "fruitfly and multiple..." I think some of them too, may just have got it wrong.

It has recently occurred to me that, although I have preposterously high standards, these should in fact be raised. Because if my previous assertions on the subject are anything to go by, the characteristics and attributes that define the ultimate attraction in the fairer sex are permanently being refined and redefined as we journey through life.

So I have been thinking about adding to The List...

Not today, though.

I know.

It's far too late in the game to sufficiently compress my thoughts into coherent bite size snippets that could fit into The List. Well, today anyway. But suffice it to say, I have most certainly added criteria. I now, even more than before, lament my eternal celibacy.

Which conveniently brings us to the subject of today's pointless post. Alcohol. We all love us a pint every now and then. Some more than others. In fact there are a growing number of us that revel in being known as functional alcoholics. Now I was always brought up believing that "alcoholic" was an ugly word. Like "lose" or "hippy" or "no, only OVER the sweater..."

But in our current liberal climate of acceptance, we have come to embrace our "disease" (as some people like to put it). I'd much rather accept the fact that I can get bladdered every night and still do my job every day than say, the existence of Justin Beiber. THAT is an indictment on modern society if ever there was one. Hey, I even manage the odd literary contribution - hangover or not.

And on that absolutely irrelevant note, I'm off. I have cleared my schedule for the evening and am looking forward to a wonderful night in my own company, keeping comfy and warm and not doing much at all. Perhaps I'll stop on the way home and pick up some Old Brown Sherry.

Spread The Love. "Be Fruitfly and Multiple." Be on the lookout for List Updates.

YUP... STILL HERE.

They got the day wrong, people!

You know it's the end of the world when I post something with fucking lolcats in it!!! It's today - it's todaaaaay ! ! ! !

Anyway. I digress.

So... cliche heaped upon cliche, imagine my surprise when I awoke with an apocalyptic hangover and a stinging cheek to find I had in fact not been whisked away to stand judgement for all my sins. This is slightly different from the normal Sunday morning feeling of having an apocalyptic hangover and wondering how the fuck I got home or what sort of judgement I'd have to face as a consequence of my actions the night before.

What a weekend. Even the world decided not to end.

Friday evening was spent in the company of good friends braaing and drinking. Made for an awesome evening. Saturday morning was spent collaboratively composing orchestration for a song we're working on. And by "collaborative composing" I mean occasionally popping my head into the studio and saying things like "no, I don't like that" or "try something different".

Went to Cape Town Stadium on Saturday afternoon to watch Ajax CT hopefully win their maiden PSL title. Seems match fixing is still rife within South African sport. It's the only explanation. The goalkeeping howler that gifted the title to Pirates will probably go down in history as one of the most glaring of all time. That is, if anyone anywhere in the rest of the world gave a half a toss about South African football. The atmosphere was incredible though, I will most certainly be making a concerted effort to attend a good couple of games next season.

Saturday night, as we all know, was to herald the clippity clop of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse as they tore through the fabric of society (like the beginning of college football games) and shepherded us all into our own personal versions of eternal damnation. And I was entrusted to provide the soundtrack. I think my dj set went very well, actually. Lots of bouncing bodies and sweaty swaying. Unfortunately the evening ended rather abruptly, bringing to mind my Dad's famous words "na lekker lag, kom lekker huil..."

So. Full circle back to Sunday morning. Has anyone noticed how increasingly difficult it is to extricate oneself from the warm loving embrace of your bed? I have...

The raddest thing about having a massive braai on the Friday is the wonderful array of meats that you can include in your breakfasts all weekend.

And now we're into our first post-apocalyptic work week. Bugger. At least judgement day would have been something different. Although I suspect it would be the equivalent of going to Home Affairs to sort out a new ID. Nevertheless, on with the slog...

Have a good week, everyone.

Spread The Love. Gemini Style.

GOOD MATES AND CHAMPIONSHIP TITLES

I SMACK YOU ON YOUR BUM BUM ! ! ! ! !

It's a beautiful day. Not in the Bono-can-suck-my-ass way. Just the normal way.

Normal as in - the weather here in the Beloved Mother City is perfect.

Normal as in - I have a rad braai planned with some good buddies later.

Normal as in - I'm leaving work early and starting the important business of getting lacquered in earnest.

Normal as in - I just got a call out of the blue with the offer of tickets to tomorrow's final game of the PSL season to watch my team, The Urban Warriors lift the title trophy.

Normal as in - the DA opening a can o' whupp ass on the CNA and retaining powah locally.

Life is good. Tomorrow evening I am providing the soundtrack to the final demise of the world. Let's hope the well worn cliche of "chicks dig DJs" works in my favour tomorrow night. If I can't convince the bar to run me an almighty line of credit, then maybe I can use the insidious tactic of "Ag come on, the world is ending in 3 hours, put the pepper spray away..." when chatting up a nice wholesome young lady.

Oh, did I mention I just ordered THIS...

Enjoy the weekend y'all. If by some chance the world is still spinning on its axis by Monday, I hope you haven't all been nabbed by the police for partaking in Post Rapture Looting. As opposed to the normal state of affairs during our beloved country's "strike season", when everyone experiences Post Looting Rapture.

Spread The Love. The End Is Nigh...

ZOMBIE GNOME ROCKS!

"BURN AN X IN YOUR HEAD"

Or even better, make one on your back-stamped ballot paper (they're like Edward Street cougars) to keep the villainous and treacherously corrupt CNA out of the Cape...
Whatever.

But seriously, I hope you all did your civic duty. And I don't mean washing your Honda on your day off.

So, another public holiday for some... I got the whole i-Votela thing out of the way before 8am and realised it was actually still before work time, so had an entire day to do "stuff". "Stuff" ended up consisting of slicing my house up with a very large power drill. The backyard is under a foot of building rubble and the inside of the house is under an inch thick winter wonderland of drilling dust...

It's my turn to host Dinner Club tonight. The fact that I now live alone and am being forced to cook for people is abhorrent enough, without having to race home from football and have to perform cleaning miracles beforehand. Oh well, maybe I'll make dust pie. And turn water into wine. Trust me, THAT would be rad!

And it feels like Monday. Luckily tomorrow is Friday then...

On with yesterday's adventures. It was the Mom's birthday so we went out for birthday dinner at Posticinos, possibly one of the best little Italian place around. Not much to report. The guessing game before the unwrapping of the present was quite entertaining though... It's amazing how many applications there could actually be for a digital photo frame.

Ja, so. Day off for making 2 little Xs. Fuck. I should have the rest of my life off for January's exploits.

Spread The Love. Make Lots Of Xs... Even Glen Benton deserves a vote.

FAKE EVERYTHING!

Bless Barrulus... Another one with blogolitis and responsible for finding this beaut of a pic.

Today we celebrate Fake Irreverent Friday. Tomorrow we i-Votela, hence the day off. I trust most of you are taking to the ballots and casting your vote as is your constitutional right. Much the same as it is your constitutional right to experience the delightful array of life threatening activities on offer in our fair land.

But on to more important matters. Don't you just love the pic? Eh!? They say a picture speaks a thousand works, and granted, this one has some of its own, but isn't it too brilliant? Not in some deliberately debauched way either. If we're honest with ourselves both men and women are can to be quite liking this progression - obviously from entirely different perspectives. It's just so right. So coherent...

It seems society has long since decided on the appropriate behaviour required to be a respectable lady...

Everything except those faked orgasms. What's the point? I would imagine you'd have to be a thespian (yes, I said thespian) of note in order to deliver a convincing enough performance. Just remember, if he isn't doing it right enough for you to decimate pillows and buck like a gazelle being savaged by a crocodile, then he probably simply doesn't give enough of a fuck if you're getting off anyway, and you're probably better off without this individual.
But even then, why fake? Surely the best course of action is to guide or instruct the huffing sweaty oaf - it could only benefit you in the future.
Faking merely perpetuates the illusion among sexually selfish men that they're doing it right.

I would imagine...

I can't tell if anyone has ever faked it with me. Mainly because any such incident would, by virtue of the length of time since my last dalliance, be lost in the mists of time...

So go and vote tomorrow. Vote to maintain the status quo. Vote to keep Late Night News with Loyiso Golo in workable material. Vote for change. Vote for anything. Vote for anyone. Vote for the Customs Tax to be lowered on the imported Rampaging Rabbits, or whatever they're called.
Vote for choice. Vote for every single band in the Universe (I mean Facebook) that needs your vote to have more votes than every other band. Vote for free toasters. Vote for fake orgasms. PUT YOUR EX DOWN! (That seems quite a popular sport already...)

Spread The Love. You Know You've Been Unwittingly Groomed For It All These Years.

FIDDLING BY MYSELF

According to some religious fundamentalist fanatics, the end of the world is nigh. Armageddon is actually supposed to happen on Saturday. I wonder if Shoprite worked this into their monthly budget forecasts?

As far as I'm concerned, Judgement Day wasn't too far off when I watched 'Freddie Got Fingered' the first time and had "listen to my hooves" indelibly imprinted in my brain forever - a cheap substitute for the onrushing clippety clop of the Four Horsemen, but infinitely funnier.

Anyway, the End Of The World then...

(Perhaps I should lower my standards for a week...)

I'm DJing - World Goth Day - and it seems quite fitting that I should be providing the soundtrack to the world's demise. Kinda looking forward to it. Do you think the bar would extend me a line of credit? Imagine. Me perched in the DJ box deliriously drunk and spinning tunes suited to the End Of Everything while the writhing mass of bodies in front of me goes down in a swirling mass of stricken limbs - full on Nero style! The fiddler of DOOOOOOOOOOOOM ! ! !

Bring marshmallows.

Speaking of soft squishy things that are burnt black on the outside and white and sticky on the inside, the hatespeech case against JuJu has taken an interesting turn. Apparently now singing "shoot the boer" is in fact, according to a surprisingly lucid judge, "incitement to commit murder". Well, fuck me. Really!? Not that it matters, Michael Stipe is proudly marching on toward self prophetic realisation as we speak...

In other far more upbeat news, The Mighty Red Devils have finally usurped those dodgy Scouser hubcap thieves as the most successful ever English football team. WHAAAAHOOOOOOH ! ! !

Glory, glory indeed! However short lived.

And on that note I am off to go and practice fiddling by myself.

Spread The Love. There Isn't Much Time Left.

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM ! ! ! !

As in Fatty Boom Boom (pictured left) and Fatty Boom Boom (pictured everywhere else).

Today we rant about taste. As in "That was in bad taste...", "She has atrocious taste in men..." or "Drink your pineapple juice..."

I don't even know where to start! Typical. I come up with a topic and convince myself I have a myriad opinions on the matter only to experience suffocating writer's block the minute I hit "New Post".

Oh yes! Now I remember! In the wake of the Roxette gig last night, people's perennially abysmal tastes have once again found themselves under the glaring spotlight. And by abysmal taste, I merely mean anything contrary to mine. Let's inspect the 3 types of people that go to a Roxette show 20 or 30 years after they were at their peak.

1. The type that'll go to anything lest they miss out, even when most of the dross we're served up in South Africa is either revival bands coming here to die, or dead bands coming here hoping to revive flagging careers. Personally it all smells a bit of cashing in on a territory desperate for decent entertainment. On that note, drag your ill-informed asses out to go and watch local bands more often. And no, the fucking Parlotones do not qualify as a band. They're merely a collection of jingle writers.

2. The nostalgia concert attender. These are the least offensive of the lot, but should at least try and disguise themselves entering and leaving the venue. And no, you shouldn't try to fit into the jeans packed away in your cupboard from "when they were still hot" or try and find the ugly threadbare neon band-tshirt either.

3. The die hard fans. In most cases I have no problem with loyalty to a group, but with Roxette, your tastes should definitely be questioned. And then you should be publicly ridiculed like in the old days when stocks and rotten fruit projectiles were so popular.

That covers one application of the word.

"She has awful taste in men..." is a discussion for another time altogether.

The last is self explanatory and I will not be tempted by its base vulgarity. This is a family programme, you know!

Now what's next? Ah. Fucking Cold(sore)play. Go ahead. Prove my point for me!

Spread The Love. And The Earplugs.

BOOGIE NIGHTS

Oh Rollergirl, hallowed be thy name. And ravaged be thy everything else!

I watched Boogie Nights last night, and whilst it is quite a long and trying movie, Rollergirl remains the highlight even after all the dog earred years of watching it over and over again.

I am going to the next fancy dress I am invited to (providing it doesn't have too specific a theme) as Rollergirl. I have rollerblades and a penis, so it may not be quite as believable, but I'm doing it anyway. Getting rabidly drunk in rollerblades should be a laugh though...

On an entirely different note, I am getting exceptionally cheesed off with humanity once again. The level of intolerence, indifference, stupidity, torpor, selfishness, self-centredness, cowardice, prejudice and just generally being UTTERLY FUCKED UP is getting to me.

I need a lie down. Either that or I am going to be enjoying another type of sex. The Polsmoor Polka, to be more specific. Homicide is still frowned upon, even after I've explained at length that it should be condoned, at least in special cases when someone is obviously deserving of it.

Spread The Love. That's how Heather and I roll...

GETTING OLD

For once I have managed to synch the picture to the general sentiment. That's me on the left...
The person on the right is simply the embodiment of what I want for my birthday.

Yes, my birthday is coming up, and with it all the usual existential musings about one's mortality. Is it true that you're only as old as you feel? When is it considered embarrassing to act like a teenager? What's the cut off age between "older cooler guy" and "creepy paedophile"?

At what age is it acceptable to move to the suburbs on purpose? When is too late to settle down to a mundane existence of 2.4 kids and the white picket fence?

Should the meandering mutterings of a rambling old fool be struck from the intrawebs?

Nah! Fuck it! Let's have a party instead!

I hereby proclaim my birthday shall henceforth be known as Hugh Heffner Day at my house. Someone please make sure I get my birthday wish (see above - it's actually a lot more revealing than first glance would suggest).
I plan to emulate the good old days and get carnivordigoggled drunk. As it should be. Getting older should NOT necessarily mean getting wiser. It should just mean you can lie about the aftermath better.

Spread The Love. In Your Birthday Suit...

PARADISE - NEITHER LOST NOR FOUND

Spoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooon ! ! ! !

We live in a lovely little neck of the woods, don't we?

Went away to Langebaan for the weekend and have once again been presented with a moral issue. The one that exists between being obliged to retell what happened "at band camp..." or "what goes on on tour, stays on tour"...

Since this was for more band camp than tour, I have decided to tell you what happened. Nothing...

It was GLORIOUS. Well, nothing newsworthy. We excelled at the let's-see-how-much-beer-we-can-fit-into-our-bodies game we had come up with. Relaxing was done until we were actually tired of relaxing. Sundowners at Pearly's was a little disappointing. The service from the inbred no-chinners was appalling. At least OUR waitress was on the ball, very ably dealing with an instruction to replace vodka with tequila. Seeing her colleagues rummaging around for their missing chromosomes didn't fill us with optimism that this would in fact be achieved without bloodshed, but she managed admirably!

On to more loafing about and making obscene fires and braaing. Matt 'Small Spoon' Daemon was on top form, royally entertaining the rest of us. The life, I tell you. I was relegated to the kid's room single bed so the Princess could indulge in 5star luxury. Oh well...

Anyway, a great time was had by all and I can't wait to go out there again.

Mother's Day was the third braai in a row - with Demonic Sibling and the Brother In Awe. Can't really find anything to complain about yet.

Topped off with Manchester United all but clinching the title by tearing Chelski a new one, my weekend was virtually perfect.

Spread The Love. Unless you're sans chin and already the result of some dubious cousin humping.

IRREVERENT FRIDAY ! ! !

Another conundrum presents itself - just in time for a weekend's worth of worthless speculation. See above. It's surprising how, er... anal people can be about this...

I count myself as one such individual, but then everyone who knows me will very quickly point out that I'm excessively full of shit. Wow! The hits just keep on coming! I have often found the loo roll the wrong way around (I'm not telling which way is correct) and simply changed it - as opposed to vehemently berating the offender. Kinda just happy I don't have to do the toxic waltz over to the bathroom cabinet had I gone about my "reading" before checking if there was enough soft-strong-and extra-long, you know...

This is of course not the only great debate when it comes to toilet paper. Arguments rage on and on about 1 vs 2 ply, the general 'softness index' and whether it is more humane to wipe your arse on puppies or roses. Puppies are the choice of the most discerning bottom wiper, it has been established, by the way.

Not to mention the hotly contested issue of whether it is proper bathroom etiquette to finish the chapter even if your butt's gone to sleep. We'll discuss this another time.

Charming subject matter, I hear you mutter, shaking your head in faux-disgust. Not so...

It is after all IRREVERENT FRIDAY! Time to take a dump on the week, wipe your lavender scented arse on what's left of Friday, get out of the bog of the real world and go and enjoy your life!

Spread the love. Then use 2ply with puppy print if you're unlucky enough not to have a 'list girl'...

PRO-CRASTINATION

Yup, much like "choice", I am also vehemently pro putting off that which can be done later. I have a gajillion "personal admin" papers to sort through and have decided a long time ago to build a sort of informal settlement in the dining room with all the envelopes and whatnot horded up and unopened. It's my way of demonstrating against the relentless pillaging of the rain forests.

However, much like the tree that falls, I fear my silent objections are doing nothing constructive in terms of being heard. The only thing that happens is I have to spend a great deal of time opening envelopes, sorting into piles and filing away never to be looked at again. Kinda tragic waste of time and effort, but eventually has to be done. Have I mentioned how much I abhor personal admin?

So in the spirit of all this procrastination, I found the picture above whilst doing a very leisurely fart arsing about on the intrawebs. Again, sod all to do with anything, but it did get me thinking about festivals...

Briefly. I have since stopped thinking about festivals, but here is someone that went a step further. She actually went to one recently. And then wrote about it. I give you the enthralling experiences of Tarty Farty Tequila Party - fast becoming a legend in her own living room, and many others.

On with the merriment. I am super chuffed to announce my cunning plan. I, Sodoff Baldrick, being of sound mind and whatever...

Making myself look good by association. It's the next big thing - trust me.

Here's the plan. Find cool, intelligent, talented people and latch yourself onto them. Bribe them if you must. They will make it possible for you to be seen as one of the cool kids, or enable you to claim that you're a musically gifted individual, or even leave you some of their leftover lovers.

Failing this, you will unfortunately be compelled to take up smoking.

Or get a van like the one above for your next festival experience...

Spread the love. In a hygienic and well signposted area.

ALL BREWER - NO DROOP

Myself and the esteemed "other 7" all have commemorative tshirts with the above logo printed on the front. Commemorative, because on the back it simply states:

8 Mates

48 Hours

140 litres.

I shit you not. Based on a truly memorable weekend. We have video. It's the only way we could actually remember anything...

So my holiday started off with a long weekend away staying at the scene of this particular crime, the Suntouched Inn, in picturesque Napier. It truly is a wonderful place to go, for breakfast, for a whole weekend, for the locals, for the resident couch potato (otherwise known as Zeplin The Wunderhound), but especially for the couple that run the place, Craighan and Angela Millar - 2 of the most warm and welcoming people you're ever likely to meet. Oh, and then there's the beer on tap at their fine establishment's bar...

Needless to say, we all had a great ol' time and were exceptionally sad to leave, as always.

Oh, did I mention the unfathomably cool entertainment? If you EVER get a chance to go and see a young lady known as Shannon Hope, do yourself the hugest of favours and just go. She is simply spectacular, a singer songwriter of rare talent, and one who I am sure will make very large waves. Her clever concoction of heartfelt melancholy laced with a healthy dose of quirky quips make for a thoroughly entertaining evening. Her virtuosity as an instrumentalist is breathtaking and her voice is descendant straight from the heavens, a strong and emotive vehicle for her obviously intelligent lyrics. Artists of this quality don't come along every day - do NOT miss out - check out the link. And trust me, I should know...

Chuck in a few "moerse pies" and that was our weekend away. Oh, I almost forgot to mention the tour of the Napier Bier brewery, courtesy of their master brewer, Richard. I have now decided to lump in city life and take up an apprenticeship as a beer maker. Shouldn't be too hard considering the 10 years I spent enrolled as a student of Chemical Engineering. At least my Mom will be happy.

The rest of the holiday was spent unpacking all my cds, reading a Cure biography and listening to the concurrent albums as I progressed through the chapters. Don't be alarmed if the song I am currently working on brings to mind a particularly funny Adam Sandler performance. Even the subject matter can be argued to be similar.

I also went to go and watch the latest incarnation of a band I was in. "Little Miss My Whole Bum Fits Into His One Hand" was there. At least when the Cockblocker was in attendance I had an excuse for being so utterly useless.

And so we've all but caught up. I'm back at work and back online. Hope you didn't all miss me too much. Tonight's festivities include making a healthy yet delicious culinary delight, recording a song that hasn't even been written yet (the ideas are cemented in my mind), and watching the mighty Red Devils march on to Wembley and glory! There may be beer involved.

So. Spread the love. Not the Lurgy.