THE BITCH IS BACK!

No! Don't be nasty. We've already established that exes are all wonderful, witty, warm and welcoming people. I am of course, referring to the sudden re-emergence of Martha.

Tonight's band practice has been cancelled.
This gives me a chance to clean up the mountain of empty booze bottles and empty glasses and overflowing ashtrays.

Also, the dining room needs to be converted back from its current state as a guitar workshop.
Also, I've all but depleted the stockpile of frozen leftovers, so will have to cook something awesome tonight.

*Tah! Daaaaaah* And Martha Stewart once again leaps into the limelight!

I'm quite looking forward to rediscovering the original colour of the floors...

Also, today and tomorrow are very important days on the calender of every year. Today, being the last day of August, heralds the last day of transfer activity in the international football market. Which means the rumour mills can just stop for a while and we can get on unhindered with the important business of hating our friends for their support of a rival team not one of us has any real affiliation with.

Uh oh! Ended a sentence on a preposition. Good thing Mother Dear doesn't read this here blog, she'd have a fit. That reminds me of this joke. Van walks around in London and goes up to a Bobby asking "Where am Big Ben at?" You should be able to figure out the rest...

And tomorrow is the Save The Rhino By Wearing Black Day. Whilst I am all for raising awareness, especially in a case where such vile butchery is being perpetrated on innocents, I fail to see how wearing black is going to do much. A friend of mine, let's call him Lord Doom (he's gonna love me for that) had this to say on the matter: "Fair enough. I do find that 'awareness' is a word thrown about way too liberally these days. Plenty of people are 'aware' of things like domestic abuse, but wouldn't have the balls to actually intervene were they to come across an incident."

I agree, if you are so concerned, donate cash towards a fund. Or something equally proactive. The goths have a bad enough name as it is, without you further besmirching their choice of clothing colour.

Says he, who wears predominantly black anyway. It's slimming, don't you know. Many years ago, in fact, we instituted Wear Only Black Day on Valentine's Day and the Spring Day anyway. So whela! Luckily I've grown up a bit. I now embrace romance and the great outdoors. And the gospel according to Martha...

Speaking of, today's gospel according to Saint Smith:

Book 10 : Chapter 5 : Verse 30 - 32

Anyway, pressing merrily on. Today I am a day closer to retirement, and so are you! Reason enough to celebrate methinks!

NGDG: "Neal Goldwyer just answered a question about you. The question is: do you think that people who click on spam are fucktards? The answer: Undeniably."

Stole the words right out of my... um... from my fingertips?

Spread The Love. Just Don't For Fuck's Sake Rely On Rhino Horn. Fucking Limp Dick Rejects.

I PREDICT A RIOT - ON A HOT AUGUST NIGHT.

Wow! I'm really on a roll with these music related subject lines. Perhaps I should join a quiz team...

Oh hang on, wait! I am already in with Team Burger King, the team that's always on a roll! Unfortunately we now have to wait a whole extra week for our LMG Pub Quiz fix, because somebody decided on a new routine of once every two weeks instead of every week. The Hatters (They be Hatting) are gonna be confused and disorientated. Please return them to the nearest bar if found wondering in the traffic sporting a daft piece of headgear.

Anyway, back to the point of this here li'l story. I find myself perplexed at the actions of the youth of our country and the lack of social responsibility shown by our so-called leaders. Whilst it can be argued that our youth has always shown more than a flighty eagerness to be swept up by empty rhetoric, it is wholly understandable that they are also plain gatvol with the standard "house, job and car" promises of relative prosperity. Our political team of rodeo clowns now have to think up some other way to stay in power, lest the gravy train derail and they're left having to actually work for their exorbitant salaries and perk packages.

As much as you may dislike ol' Juju he has certainly got a vociferous following, a sure sign of success in the political realm. He has stepped up the tired and lame promises of his elders, ones that are clearly raising the ire of those very people it is meant to keep in line at the voting polls, and introduced the next logical level, "blame something tangible". In this case it happens to be the white portion of our wonderfully cosmopolitan nation. It's actually genius. He has for so long allowed himself to be viewed as barely literate and obstinately thick that a lot of people have mistaken him for a non-threatening joke. Tell that to the poor tshirt of JZ that got torched.

So the youth are throwing stones and bottles at riot police outside Luthuli House. Bet Albert would be so proud. It is, after all, fundamentally what prompted change from the old regime in the first place. A tried and trusted method of affecting a positive outcome, if you will...

But in this day and age of readily accessible information and fashion tips, why stoop to violence? Oh that's right, it happened even worse in Lundun, Engurlund. Where the civilised, posh people live. The ones we see living out their idyllic lives on SABC television every weekday afternoon between 4 and 7.

[*Disclaimer. I am not in any way, shape or form anything vaguely like political. I hate politics with the same burning loathing I usually reserve for Megadeth or girls with gag reflexes, but here in Paradise City, one should take note of the goings on. I just like the sound of my own typing...]

NGDG: "I went to the pub with my girlfriend last night. The regulars shouted paedo at me because she's 17. It completely spoilt our 10-year anniversary."

Spread The Love. Especially In The Vicinity Of Luthuli House.

HOW THE MIGHTY HAVE FALLEN...

It's taken 12 years of incessant nagging and persistent pestering, but Rose Thorn's stubborn and willful refusal to accept no for an answer - in the most daunting of adversity - has finally paid dividends.

Let me fill you in. (I should use that - it's a pretty smoef pick up line...)

After an uninvited appearance at an early Grämlich band rehearsal, our dear Rose Thorn was inducted into the group on the strength of an impromptu acapella rendition of some or other Tori Amos song. Oh, and the willingness to learn le keyboard. Which she did. Immediately. Better than most peoples' wildest fantasies. Not mine of course. Let's not get into my fantasies...

Anyway, we have been making music together, along with a few other stalwart collaborators for many, many years since. Well, TDB. Mostly. Throughout all this time, and without stopping for breath, Miss Thorn has nagged and nagged and nagged and nagged and nagged and nagged and nagged and nagged (you get the picture) and nagged us to do a Tori cover. She's somewhat of a fan.

Up to now TDB and I have resolutely refused to budge in our denial of this request. Except for the acoustic version of one of her tracks planned for 'Birdbath Sessions' (an acoustic extravaganza of covers and originals sung whilst sitting IN a birdbath. It's tradition. It's open air. It's also invite only).

Another bit of info you may find useful is the current project we're on, which is creating yet another sub-genre of metal (because metal can never have enough sub-genres... EVERYBODY knows that!) called Djoom. We're already the pre-eminant purveyors of what you could classify as traditional Doom Metal, with all the usual trappings of slow, heavy guitars and depressed as hell everything else, so we decided to incorporate this with the math-metal phenomenon known as 'Djent' - a style of playing that involves discordant tones and poly-rhythmic time signatures.

We give you the birth of 'Djoom'. Not only that, Rose Thorn finally convinced us to do a heavy rendition of one of her precious Tori tracks - and we're gonna fuck it up thoroughly, giving it the full Djoom treatment. I wonder if any vestige of the original will be even vaguely recognizable.

And in keeping with the somewhat musical theme, here is today's Chapter & Verse, according to the gospel of Saint Smith:

Book 4 : Chapter 3 : Verse 7-8

In other news, Greyton has been issued with a natural disaster warning. Next weekend Hurricane Hell's-Loose hits the sleepy little hollow as the masses descend for a "chilled weekend away". Really, really looking forward to that! Especially since Tarty Farty Tequila Party is going to be there!

And on with the show, as we check in with the venerable Mr Goldwyer in NGDG: "I laugh at your "must be installed by a qualified electrician, in accordance with SANS 10142". Well, I did, before realising this twilight is still rapidly autumnal, as I stood atop a ladder, in the dark, my shoulders on fire as I strained against a heavy steel light-fitting, trying to anchor it through non-standard holes, and battling for an hour to get the wires to stop slipping out of the terminal block. Knackered!"

Spread The Love. At Least For A Short While...

HEADLINES AND DEADLINES

Jeesh, really pimping and pillaging the 80s pop culture band catalogue for headings these days, me...

[This is where you knowingly respond "Aha, I knew I knew that"]

Anyway, the weekend then. All things considered, it had its ups and downs, but let me rather fill you in on the ups.

On Friday I decayed the impressionable minds of our country's youth with a very successful lecture/discussion presented at the Campus Of Performing Arts. I even got lunch, and I have to say it was a great experience. Whether or not I managed to inform, inspire or simply provide the kids with a sense of utter despair and disillusionment is a matter for discussion some other time.

After that I went to go see my dear friend Daddy Longlegs, who was kind enough to provide me with a beautiful Jackson Kelly for my use over the next month, with my upcoming show with Axxon in mind. Thanks, buddy - the sponsorship is finally bearing fruit.

Next it was a little trip to the studio to marvel at the wonderful work being done by our genius friend, Herr Grun. Boy, can that man masterfully manipulated the seven levels of kak out of a synth line.

Saturday was spent in the same lofty company, rehearsing for the Axxon show and then having a braai and an impromptu late night jam. It must have been lots of fun, because I woke, rather groggily the next day, to find the house had been smashed apart by a hurricane of sorts. I hugged the dishwasher.

And here we are. Mega Moanday. Apparently I am the only soul that follows the intrepid doings of Dame Helena Handbasket. I am obviously the only soul with the good fortune to be blessed with such impeccable taste and wonderful sense of humour. I do suggest clicking, reading and bookmarking - a cracking read and a thoroughly entertaining tirade against the tyranny of something called "bootcamp"...

You may be expecting another hymnal lesson from Saint Smith, but it is with a heavy heart that I dedicate today's song reference from another equally eloquent source, Saint Stainthorpe: "All the angels are shamed..."

So, onto Monday and the looming deadlines. It's that time of year again. NOT in the mood. But it has to be done. I really need to speed up this "tropical island/cold beverage/lounging around/85ft yacht" pipe dream - we're getting nowhere fast with all this "work" clogging up the arteries of life.

Ok, on that rather foreboding note, allow me to get back to work. Until post-work-nap-time. Followed by pre-band-practice-dinner-time. Whooohooo! My life's not that bad after all!

NGDG: "In the eternal war against entropy your greatest ally is yourself, although you can never be sure he's not a double-agent."

Spread The Love. Go And Hug Someone You Love. Especially Family.

THE CURE FOR ALL THE ILLS OF THE WORLD

Ladies and gentlemen, behold! Another institution is about to explode on your screens. Like IRREVERENT FRIDAYS. Like NEAL GOLDWYER'S DAILY GEM. Like an over excited teenager...

I give you, in the spirit of spreading the delightfully loquacious gospel of Saint Smith, your sporadically updated CHAPTER & VERSE, in which you get to go on something akin to an online Easter Egg Hunt.

Today's C&V will be a relatively easy one. Like my Cuzzin, the honourable DrHellCuz (PHD, BFP and GHD). I give a series of numbers which may or may not relate to the chronological release of an album, the number of the song on it and, the line or verse to which I refer. Easy, huh?

Book 7 : Chap 17 : Verse 4

Now let's see who is bored enough to figure it out. Please bear in mind that this serves merely as a vague indication of my mood or how I feel about something or someone, or even just a cool line I can't not post at the time. It - like so much else in the world - has precious little to do with you.

Also, please join me in congratulating Tarty Farty Tequila Party on wangling tickets to review Rocking The Daisies and wishing the intrepid Helena Handbasket a speedy recovery from the lurgy that so deprives us of her wit and wonder.

I shall now endeavour to do some work. Ok, no I won't. It is after all, Friday...

Yes, you guessed it, yours truly will be off air tomorrow. Out of the office. Hallelujah! Now all I have to do is figure out what exactly I am going to say whilst delivering my seminar to the eager minds of tomorrow's industry experts...

Perhaps a crash course in blogging and basic netiquette would serve them better. Or 'how to frown at your screen trying to look busy whilst thinking of a funny synonym for bottomfeeder'.

NGDG: "I feel very vulnerable after stripping my cubicle. That was not a euphemism. Nor was 'I need to wallpaper my airduct'. "

Spread The Love. All Of It. All Of The Time.

NUTS AND BOLTS

No, you dirty, dirty, filthy minded (wonderfully intelligent and beautiful) people, you!

On any other, more ordinary day, you could be forgiven for assuming I was about to launch into a metaphor-strewn piece about the tight fit of the screw, and heaven knows, after yesterday's shitfest, you would be forgiven. But today I have a serious agenda.

Well, as serious (and as specific) as I am prone to getting.

In this short life we are given, does it not strike you as NUTS that so many of us shun the wonderful opportunities that present themselves. Please do not read "he's a filthy hippy and he smells of dung so let's bugger off and leave him to his hemp ornaments" - instead think for one moment of how many times you could have, and should have, told that special someone how you really feel about them, instead of justifying your basic cowardice by overrationalising. Or how many times you've chosen to ignore the plight of others when a simple gesture of good will could have made such a massive difference. Or how about letting the chance to be part of something special slip through your fingers because you're too lazy or stupid to see the possibilities... Or get involved.

So much of our time is spent reinforcing our comfort zones, we are barely capable of the excitement which makes life worth living. We sit and condemn cruelty and politics and greed from the luxury of our office chairs, tucked away on the safe side of the computer screen. We even pooh-pooh those that try and make a difference (spamming aside).

And then we act surprised, hurt and victimised when the object of our desire or affection, the opportunity to do some good or the chance to effect real change BOLTS right out of your life like a bat out of hell. A bat in a particular hurry to get the fuck away from a particularly shitty hell.

It is however, the complete lack of awareness in the slack-jawed masses that most fascinates me. People continue on their zombie-like assault on daily living with glass-eyed ignorance and persist in shifting the blame for their shortcoming or refusing to take responsibility for their failings. It is only the admirable few with the courage of their convictions that actually achieve their goals, or at the very least try and sometimes fail. And then inevitably bare the brunt of the ire and jealousy of the unwashed masses.

To all the ostriches and the mindnumbingly myopic, and in a further attempt to flood the world with as much truth from the mouth of Robert Smith as possible: "It's a big, bright, beautiful world out there... Just the other side of the door."

[*Disclaimer: it is the sole prerogative of the author - in many cases in life - NOT to follow their own advice.]

NGDG: "I found a styrofoam container of gnawed chicken bones under my parked car. And since I take everything personally, I will jot it down as yet another reason I'll be ecstatic to leave the squalid filthpot called the CBD or Lenkhukhu Mlungu or whatever this 4th-placer in the Let's Choose A National Capital Raffle calls itself."

Spread The Love. Quickly. Those Who Hesitate Are Lost.

I SHIT YOU NOT!

The subject of today's discussion, dear, gentle reader, is Colonic Irrigation. I.Shit.You.Not...

Something John Cleese above looks like he could benefit from right about now.

In a very ill-advised slip of the tongue, I may have mentioned to someone that I was at somewhat of a loss as to probable content for today's blog. And since I tend to rehash the same old rubbish about being tired and emulating Martha Stewart every time I've experienced a less than exciting day, they thought it was a splendid idea to suggest a more specific title.

I give you 'Colonic Irrigation'. Not the Hollywood version where there are a small group of town's folk gathered with placards demanding "We wanna know - where does the shit go", but real, honest to goodness, down-n-dirty, investigative journalism, the type you'd associate with Noeleen from 3Talk, or Debra "Drukka" Putty.

I knew someone who had to go for a colonoscopy, a rather invasive procedure, I think you will agree. I believe an enema is part and parcel of the whole wonderful experience. Have you ever stopped to think about it though? It's essentially a jet of liquid fulfilling the old Afrikaans idiom "Spuit, spuit, my storie is uit" to the letter. [Ok, I may have used some artistic licence there.]

Now the only reason I no longer drink and drive is that I fear above all else the Polsmoor Polka, the dance of death, the certain long and painful termination of my life at the hands of a gang of sex-starved tik addicts of the Ag En Twintig variety. It's fair to assume that this will be my fate the next time I open with the line "Gnnnnffffmmmghghgggg er hallo orifice, haaarsit mah poents! Wharezah fuggin loudhailer - orrin you suppowz to he one fora fingy..."

I'm already on strike six million...

It is the invasion of my sensitive derriere that "scares the shit outta me", if you will...

Anyway, as with any activity or situation in life, one is compelled to look at it from different angles in order to get a comprehensive picture. See where I'm going with this? Consider the medical practitioner in charge of administering this kak gedagte. Talk about permanently second guessing your life choices. And thanking the inventor of protective clothing. Imagine being the vet that "lost" his thermometer in the backside of the grumpy, gastric cow...

As with all things, like certain delicacies around the globe and how you may find it gross, there are 2 sides to every story. When we were young and forced to go to SOS camp, we stood in cow plop on a cold winter morning... barefoot, exhorted by some daft bat called Zebra or Tortoise to squish it deep between our toes and fully experience the wonderful warming sensation. Although this did not kill us, it carried with it a certain "gross that's yuk" factor and we haven't done so again, save for the random altercation with dogpooh every number of years. Dogpooh, unavoidable.

Now imagine the depraved individual that purposefully picks a vocation that involves cleaning out your lower intestine - and those of other people (imagine the staggering variety) - on a daily basis. "Hi I'm Doctor Kniediep Innikak and I'll be putting these gloves on now"...

"Hi I'm Doctor Ben Dover..."

When I go to the proctologist, he has to wear an arc-welding mask. Because the rumours are true. The sun, as opposed to all manner of filth inhabiting the rectal canals of everyone else, actually does shine out of my arse. I couldn't think of a better way to wrap up this utterly disgusting, Terence n Philip type post of the lamest drivel ever committed to ether.

It's actually a high level psychological experiment in the attraction behind toilet humour. If you've made it this far, thank you for participating. Your eagerness to read about faeces has done science a great service...

NGDG: "My first proposal for tonight's AGM will be the formation of a 24-hour complex militia who's seek-and-destroy objectives will be: tenants who play music lacking in guitar, and stray cats."

Spread The Love. Pass The Hose.

WWW.WOZA WEEKEND WIZZARD

Eish.

I am well and truly knackered.

I feel like the stereotyped Italian yob, post feast, that casually leans back and undoes his belt whilst scratching contentedly at his overstuffed, spaghetti-stained-vest covered boep. Satisfied, satiated, but fucking uncomfortably so. Too much of a good thing? May very well be the case. Although I had a weekend filled with some of the most amazing gastronomic delights, it wasn't just the tastebuds that go more than they bargained for. No. Not at all. The ears and eyes were assaulted with all manner of delight, and that not-insignificant part deep down that keeps screaming for more booze like a starved baby bird was more than happy with the outcome. Although its neighbour, Mr Liver is not as convinced all's well.

Let's start at the start. Springbok rump potjie. Words to instill an automatic salivatory response in even the most doubting of casual meat eaters, and a few misinformed All Black fans. It was exquisite. An evening spent hopping around by the fire, talking heaps of shit and generally having a good time was capped off with this incredible feast - fit for kings! I even managed to participate in the manufacture of bullets. Talk about taking the entire "hunter" theme to its opportune extreme. Thanks to the Dean of Univer City and the hostess with the mostest, his awesome wife Slappy. What an evening!

Saturday was spent playing through most of the Axxon set. Best you all invest in staple guns to keep your faces attached to your skulls, the 24th of September is going to be quite a little evening...

After that I was happily whisked away by my Sidekick-in-Sleepers-Obsession, the lovely Rose Thorn, to the Demonic Sibling and the Brother-In-Awe for pre-gig drinks. Where I promptly pulled off my party pants and fell asleep on the couch for an hour. Lame.

Anyway, we finally got to Mercury Live and did the obligatory stand around / order drinks / make small talk / greet millions of people / pretend to remember who the fuck this oke is that's talking to me / shots at the bar / say the right thing to everyone / try not to give away the fact that you're almost weeing yourself with excitement. My friend, the Manager said casually to me, upon being asked who Ark Synesis were, that I'd like them. Fucking hell! Did I fucking like them...

They were the opening act. They are an instrumental 3 piece. They now own me. Forever. You'd think being an instrumental band, that they'd struggle to keep interest or momentum going. Not on your life! I have rarely seen or heard anything as consistantly engaging as these guys, a kind of Tool/Meshuggah hybrid that spends most of their time creating atmospheric soundscapes ala Anathema at their most spaced out. Bravo, sirs! Fucking bravo! Genuinely one of the most pleasant surprises I have ever had.

Next up, the ever impressive 3rd World Spectator, who also did not disappoint. The golden voice of Mr Peter Crafford elevating the crowd into a reverential state of bliss.

Cue scenes of madness, the air thick with anticipation and spittle, a fiendish and feverish period of nerves as the moment drew closer... And that was just me. Everyone was going quietly berserk, trying not to let the cool evade them altogether.

Replacing Simon Tamblyn... and I'm sorry to bring this up here, but it's going to be an inevitable comparison, will not be easy. It is an unenviable task. A task nonetheless, that this special bunch have somehow managed to conjure a rabbit out of a hat in accomplishing. Enter Daniel "I Could Serenade Angels From Their Lofty Perches In Heaven" Botha. Now I will admit to 2 things in my opinion of this gentleman's singing. I was a little inebriated. I am very used to the previous incarnation. Very. But you, sir, at the very least get a nod of approval and a thumbs up with a keen eye on the future and what you are capable of. Your contributions to another stellar set from the Mother City's favourite sons is already an indication of wonderful things to come. Well done to you and well done to the guys on unearthing this unearthly talent. Just give this poor pilgrim a minute to let it all sink in.

Obligatory ninja bomb ensued and I went home to see in the new hangover.

Ah. Sundays! A day of rest. Mostly anguish and trying to piece together the happenings of another successful Saturday night, actually. I was fortunate enough to be invited for Sunday lunch by the wonderfully talented Weekend Wizzard. Do go and check his site out, he makes Jamie Oliver look like a hack. I was served an incredible 'steak, chips and egg' which was more arty Nelson's Eye than dull Dros, a truly exquisite variation on a standard classic. A masterpiece.

Thanks buddy, we'll do it again soon!

And so we're back at work - on this Monster Moanday. It's been a struggle to keep my eyes open and to keep the hangover at bay. Almost there. One thing that helped was this awesome list of life's insights from Tequila Tart. Seems she's back in the wonderful world wide web. Huzzah!

NGDG: "A rude woman is a sad woman. Make a rude woman smile today. I did."

Rather more cryptic than usual...

Spread The Love. Cryptically. On Rude Women.

RUNNING WILD

Tonight, I'm feeding on some animal!

In our continued quest to bring Robert Smith into your computer, the real aficionados would get that reference.

It's also a reference to the wunderpotjie being brewed for my consumption this evening. Bubble, bubble, broil and um, bubble? Anyone?

Ok, the real reason we are convening tonight is to initiate the plans for an event tentatively called 'Tutus n Tiaras', which is loosely based on my recent making an arse of myself in public for monetary compensation. Apparently seeing the calamitous limb-flailing dance of catastrophic awkwardness led to some discussion about doing it en masse in order to raise funds for animal welfare. And since I already do animal welfare, I thought this was a particularly good idea.

We will keep you informed. But make an arse of yourself you will. It's worth a million loving licks in the face! And if you're not into being slobbered upon, you're probably lying to yourself. Still, you can always spectate and support.

So last night's gastonom-nom-nomic extravaganza was a roaring success. According to the guests, who for some strange reason all buggered off directly after finishing their meal. I tell you one thing. I think I won the Martha Stewart Gold-Braid Epaulettes of Kitchen Efficiency last night. Either that or I'm going to buy some gold spray paint and convert a wooden spoon into some form of trophy. I'm even thinking of taking my carnival of culinary creativity to the Biscuit Mall soon. See how those fuckers deal with "surprises" that early on a Saturday morning. Fucking suburbanite yuppie wannabe tofu-wine wankers...

Anyway, in the spirit of IRREVERENCE on this, another wonderfully IRREVERENT FRIDAY, I wish every single one of you a splendid weekend, a happy sexy-time and the mother of all hangovers on Saturday AND Sunday morning. Tomorrow night I go to experience, not just watch, the greatest band in our fair land storm the parapets of our minds, hearts and souls once more. Yes, this is your final reminder that the lyrical, majestic Sleepers are going to devour you whole at Mercury Live tomorrow night. Eargasms of the highest order!

NGDG: "If I could be an ugly famous person, I'd more then likely opt for Vince Neil over Warren Buffet."

Spread The Love. The Love, The Love, The Love Is On Fire. We Don't Need No Lube...

GOOD vs EVIL

Today we take a look at GOOD vs EVIL. Mainly because I found this cool little picture. I think this is a set of salt n pepper shakers. You can tell I've become all domesticated. A year ago this post would have been about the potentially hazardous horns on the red dildo.

Anyway, what makes people good or evil? Or is it merely a case of relativity? Is the guy at your place of work that makes you want to punch your way through his entire collection of internal organs really THAT much of a prick, or is his wife giving him grief at home. Or is he maybe hiding an embarrassing, dark secret? In my quest for knowledge and the truth, I implore you all to go and hide out in the office bathroom. Grab your laptops, tablets or smartfones and go and hide out in a toilet stall and listen for any tell tale signs of an unhappy camper. Report back by posting comments below. It's for science, people.

Let's get started by making it clear that evil is necessarily malevolent. You get bad experiences that lack malice. These are not deemed evil. There needs to be some intent behind this. Like when she purposely uses too much teeth.

There's also good. Like the judicious use of tongue... You know what, never mind. You can see where this is going. Plus I'm doing myself a grave injustice here.

The entire point of this subject (yes there's a point, if you're still manfully plodding through this retarded post) is the following:
In the movie The Wedding Singer, which character would you choose if you're a) male and b) have eyes:

Julia, played by Drew Barrymore, the sweet, cute blonde or...
Holly, played by Christine Taylor, the nasty, slutty, hot brunette?

Do you prefer salt or pepper? Or both? Do you make assumptions about people based on their outward appearance? Or do you simply think that because you, or the majority of people you know, are of a particular mindset, that everyone else should also be the same? Have you ever been attracted to someone only to find out they don't feel the same way about stuff as you do, after you've kinda committed to that person? When is it too late to bail?

These and other tidbits of existential nonsense are very important.

Or is it merely a case of the excitement of finding out outweighing the pedantic OCD trip?

Anyway, tonight I cook for the masses. The trick, you see, is to ply them with alcohol. And to make them wait. And wait. And wait. Hunger is almost as powerful as Aromat. And if you can thus fool them into thinking you've gone to all this extra trouble, their tastebuds are unfairly susceptible to your culinary charms. A toast! To my great success behind the apron tonight!

And on that alarming note, NGDG: "Where does the paper come from for the Save-The-Amazon-Petition? It will have to be submitted in triplicate. If debated by a pan-American quorum, it and the minutes will be circulated to all the participants, NGOs and CO Os and filed in Noriega-era steel cabinets, in basements of every associated Latin nation and presided over, strangely, by identical moustachioed bureaucrats in khakis."

Spread The Love. Nutella. Nutella Is Love.

HOT! HOT! HOT! JORTS WEATHER?

In the immortal words of one Robert Smith, "Fuck me, Cape Town rocks!"

Or was that me?

It's the official middle of winter and here in the Republic of Zille, the weather is glorious. It's a balmy mid to high twenties (just the way we like 'em) degrees Celsius and there isn't even a breeze to speak of. Not to mention not a cloud in the sky. Like I said, glorious. See, it's not just my rose tinted shades...

Should probably haul my ass out of my comfy office chair and get on home soon, as that is where the cold beer lives. Tonight will be the fourth band rehearsal in five nights. It must be true what they say... we do it for the love of it. It certainly hasn't been of any financial or lifestyle reward quite yet. (That incident backstage with that groupie was too long ago to count...)

Moving along swiftly, it's that time again. The dreaded detox. Yes, yes I know. Blasphemy and sacrilege! How dare I utter such heinous treacheries? I am seriously thinking about taking a night off on Friday. Unfortunately tonight, tomorrow night's Martha Stewart extravaganza (my turn to cook for dinner club) and Saturday are out. Because on Saturday we have the triumphant return of the awe-inspiring Sleepers. Rose Thorn and I are looking into adult diapers for the occasion... Then it's time for Sunday braais, and fuelling up for something to rant about on Monster Moanday.

I am seriously crashing though. I have 4'o'clock brain melt, so I'll sign off for today. Have a great evening all...

NGDG: "[From Facebook] I'm not sure I trust people with less than 100 friends. Sure, you may 'know all' of them,. But that's hardly a newsfeed that'll keep you entertained even for a standard toilet break, leading inevitably to vandalism, graffiti and degeneracy."

Spread The Love. But Not Like Courtney. Please.

THREE STRIKES AND YOU'RE OUT!

Trust me, it has something to do with the eventual Industrial Metal tint to this post.

I have a solution to Strike Season. No, not pay the proles their due. Or even a fair wage. They'll just find some lingering problem to dredge up from the past. And rubber bullets are SO last season, skattie...

Restrict Strike Season to one specific day in the year and declare it another public holiday. If a group of people have any legitimate grievance, then they are legally allowed to strike on "Strike Day". I'm thinking it would even be a great opportunity to re-introduce cigarette sponsorship and/or advertising. The revenue could be used to augment the wage increase.

Also, since it is the belief that the more children you have, the "richer" you are, does it not strike (haha - see what I did there?) the protesters as incongruous their argument that they need to be paid more because of their many, many children? But setting trees on fire is the answer, yes? Ozone be damned - I can't see it therefor it can't be real. And tipping out the very refuse you yourself will be obliged to clean up when you get back to work - this is a devastatingly devious plan to increase productivity? Don't get me wrong, I agree that one and all should have the right to work for a living wage. Read that sentence again.

On to topics far brighter. Is it just me or does everything seem so much better these days? Maybe it's taken this long for my non-smoking to kick in...

So tonight is the gathering of the gloomy. Some like minded individuals of the musically-inclined persuasion get together to play the most glorious DOOM METAL covers of all time - watch this space - we're going to unleash a show on you and then you can stand there and look awkward and forlorn. Otherwise you're not allowed in. Wrist bandages optional.

And speaking of exciting news on the live music front, if you're in the Cape Town area, please diarise Black Celebration at Mercury Live on the 24th of September. First we braai, then AXXON takes your face off. DJ Reanimator will then take care of the rest, in his inimitably stylish style. You're allowed to enjoy yourself at this one. Not like the other one.

NGDG: " I know the Universe isn't sentient, but it sure is difficult."

Spread The Love. And The Garbage Apparently.

WRITER'S BLOG

All my friends that aspire to keep their communities entertained with their ramblings have it. I know. Because I know these people and I know they have a tremendous amount to contribute. I suppose most are just not as narcissistic as me - and don't necessarily believe the entire universe is in dire need of their daily update. That's not to say my missives are "Oh, hey I just had a PB&J sammitch, now I'm off to the loo..."

Assumptions. Apparently the mother of all fuck ups. I was also always under the impression that PB&J stood for Peanut Butter & Jelly. As it turns out it's something significantly more interesting.

So. It's Monday. That's usually what happens after a weekend. Buggery.

Well,the weekend (baby) was actually chock full of adventure ad laughter and happiness and sadness and, you guessed it, a reasonably moderate quantity of booze.

Friday was awesome. Was taken to The Artscape for the Comedy Festival. The headliner for the evening was the impressionisto, Pablo Francisco. Talk about a rapid fire delivery of one liners and amazing impressions. This guy, for those of you who don't know, can do eighteen different impressions and whatnot in, like, 6 seconds. You actually really have to pay attention. To what he's doing and to not pee yourself.

The best part for me was that our local talent was so good. To be perfectly honest I thought Loyiso Gola and the other guy (sorry, forgot his name) were even better than the imports. Possibly because their content was more relevant. Either way - awesome evening. Thanks to the wonderful Sheik Yerbouti for taking me.

Saturday morning started off with me scooting on over to "BandFratHaus" to do an emergency plumbing job, as the night before, the magic fingers of THE Ryan Higgo somehow contrived to break shit.

[*I never use real names, but in this case the name has taken on a myth and mysticism of biblical proportions, thereby lending unto itself a natural sense of awe and reverence. I will not refer to it on Fridays.]

Then off to the cosy little home studio for 12 straight hours of rehearsal and recording. The braaing was done by the most qualified of the current triumvirate comprising AXXON. I believe somewhere along the line it was decided that we should only refer to each other by our general actions or outstanding ability or the like. I have since come up with 'The Whore, The Cook and The Mother", but then realised that we now have another member, public announcement pending...

As was so aptly illustrated, Sunday was a badger wrangling fiasco. Fuckers were everywhere in the kitchen stuck to all manner of surface, be it by means of spilled brandy, coke or braai marinade. Operation "chuck everything in the magic cupboard and press the button" was a great success approximately 115 minutes later.

Which brings us to the glorious day we're currently experiencing. Not too shabby, eh Nige!

For those of you in foreign climes, a short weather report for The Cape Of Storms on this disquieting winter day. It's about 21C, no wind, clear blue skies and the view from the top of the Atlantic Seaboard is nothing short of magnificent. Even when I put the mirror down...

So. Gearing up for the week ahead then. Lots of playing music. Deadlines are starting to loom. More on that exciting news later. The exalted return to football and perhaps even a light prance up the mountain with Commander Conker. I'll play it by ear. Oh, and it's my turn to startle everyone with my culinary concoctions on Thursday. I think. Members of Dinner Club beware! And pack in your Aromat / Mr Delivery brochure.

MEGA MOANDAY insert:

1. Why is it that people find it sooooo impossible to apply just the merest hint of common sense or objectivity when it comes to their feelings of unjust action visited upon their ever so virtuous selves? *See story of log in eye.
   


2. Why do seemingly intelligent people still think there is such a thing as a free lunch? If you want an iPad that fucking badly, go and buy one. *See story of "Let them eat cake".
   


3. Why can't you have your cake and eat it? Isn't that the point of having cake in the first place? It's a stupid saying. *See story of bread buttered on both sides. No, not the one starring Jenna Jameson...
   

Onward and upward then, even if there is still a tinge of the aforementioned sadness.

NGDG: "My genius at hiding important documents in secret places is rivalled only by the unlikelihood of my ever finding those places ever again."

Spread The Love. No Time Like The Present!

FINALLY - ANOTHER IRREVERENT FRIDAY

Make way! Scoot! Fuck off! Weekend reveller coming through!!!

Much like that awesome game of body slamming we all played in school, where we were enticed into Bakkies-Botha-like rushes of blood to the head, I find myself facing down the last few hours before the weekend can officially begin. There they stand, taunting me with their arms locked, chanting "Red Rover, Red Rover..."

You see, I had a meeting today. At work. Meetings here are rarer than chicken teeth or Catholic clergymen with pure thoughts in a kindergarten. I abhor meetings more than shaving. Which is a lot. Anyway, this "meeting" took far too long and I almost missed a very important Skype message. That would have been disastrous!

Oh, and if you haven't been following the wonderfully written, if sporadic blog of my friend Helena Handbasket, now is a good time. Because, well, because she loathes teenagers, mainly. And all things in the recent World news indicate that she may be on to something.

Tonight - Pablo Francisco. I wonder if he'll do any topical local impressions. Hey I've an idea. He could do any one of our local politicians - take the ticket money and do fuck all. Or is that our nurses, I get confused.

Tomorrow - the Axxon tribe continue their quest for gristly throbbiness on the musical front. We've had a very successful week up to now with all the secret bands (current internet trends - don't want to be left out) so we have a bit to live up to.

I've a feeling Sunday will be earmarked for some form of recovery.

So go forth and enjoy the FUCK out of your weekends! Remember: it's not how many times you're arrested or if your drink's a double or not, it's about making at least one small child cry.

Whether they be tears of joy or devastation depends on your level of IRREVERENCE.

Have a great one, one and all! We're off to a good start - more than one post for you! My gift!

NGDG: "I'm so fucking happy I'm going to battle to find insensitive cynical jokes to share with all of you. I did buy a really expensive bottle of wine to celebrate said happiness and the clerk was lambasting the zamalek-buying vagrant for leaving his sock on the counter. Instead of being repulsed I laughed and thought 'Haha, what a cad'."

Spread The Love. Red Rover, Red Rover!

SO MUCH IS LOST...

...so much disharmony. More than being a lyric from one of the greatest bands of all time, this also describes the current "state of affairs". No. Not the cool affairs so sordidly monitored by Joey Grecko. The everyday affairs of the world around us.

Stephen Morrissey, bless his permanently whinging little heart, once enthralled us with a ditty that spoke of panic in the streets of London. And Birmingham. And a number of other places. I am sure he feels as sickened by the goings on in Old Blighty as the rest of us, especially as the perpetrators are mostly Vicky Pollard wannabes, but I'm equally sure he feels some smug sense of satisfaction at finally being a real prophet. Ah, fleet(street)ing adulation...

I wonder how many jobless, chinless wonders will now seek refuge and political asylum in Canada. I hope Toronto is ready for an influx of pram-pushing chav-lites. Maybe they should relocate via Mowbray for added credibility, making the extra bonus points stop-over in Lavender Hill for a sundowner.

But the disharmony continues elsewhere and everywhere. It's not just the unrest in England. Take note of the atrocities in Northern Africa. And the ever-so-contrived intervention of the almighty U S of A. Oily motherfuckers. What's bothersome about it all, and the potential global economic meltdown (part II) being part of "it", is the ever more evident lack of trying to brush things under the rug or trying to bamboozle the public. Civil leaders are acting with impunity, all too aware of an all too apathetic public. We'd rather sit in our comfortable suburban living rooms watching the world around us collapse and moan whilst the kettle is boiling for our tea than rally to make a difference. It's too late now, for those of you suddenly stirred into thoughts of action. The bullet may very well already be through the church. At least my friends and I have the right sort of soundtrack, should the end of the world indeed be nigh...

A pinch of salt. Or a table spoon, as the recipe requires. That is what you should add to the above opinion-masturbation. To taste.

Let's see, since it's IRREVERENT FRIDAY, I might have to make up some utterly offensive bollocks with which to flay your delicate senses. Alas, this is not to be. Too easy. Will wait for proper opportunity and/or inspiration to present itself.

Hey! My day was just infinitely brightened. As it turns out, I got invited to attend the Comedy Festival this evening. Let's go see if this Pablo Francisco fellow is all he's cracked up to be.

NGDG: "I love how people panic because their phone numbers are apparently now public. Reminds me of the dreaded spectre of the days of the Yellow Pages."

Spread The Love. Pete Steele Once Very Aptly Suggested 'Slow, Deep And Hard'.

ARISE FROM YOUR SLUMBER

The Sleepers. The incredible, stupendous, mind-bending purveyors of musical majesty. Fuck the posers and the ill informed. This is the band that has a rightful claim to being considered as one of the best this country has to offer. Deservedly so - down to their baby toes.

They've been sleeping. Hibernating and hiding in the shadows. But... Kalooh Kalay! Oh Fraptuous Day! They have readied themselves for Season IV of this thrilling, gripping saga.

It may have occurred to you by now that I may be a fan of this band. Incontinently, unashamedly so! But unlike your run of the mill fanboy, I have the considerable credentials to substantiate any music related opinion, so you have no choice other than to accept my words as gospel.

So, The mighty, beautiful Sleepers will be making their first live appearance when they perform alongside 3rd World Spectator and Bicycle Thief at Mercury Live on the 20th of August. They will be unveiling their new vocalist - much like a bride before her first kiss - a momentous occasion...

And all this for the paltry fee of R30! The world is truly at an end...

Anyway, this salivating soul cannot wait! Hope to see as many of you there as possible. Wear ear bibs.

NGDG: "I'm quite looking forward to partying it up tomorrow night. Hope I haven't forgotten how. Put booze in face. Mock posers. Waste money. Like riding a bicycle, stolen from the bicycle shed."

Spread The Love. Catch Those Pesky Bicycle Thieves. Oh, And The Sleepers Of Course!

4 DAYS AND 4 NIGHTS...

Pic courtesy of Kian Eriksen

I was without the intrawebs. It was actually quite nice not to know the intimate details of every one's daily existence, their ever-changing sexual preferences or the contents of their lunchboxes at any given moment. The way it was. The way it should be.

And on that note, guess what I've been up to!

Not much actually, which has made for an infinitely pleasurable and leisurely long weekend. Don't get me wrong, there were accomplishments aplenty, it was all just done at the pace of syrup running uphill. I overhauled and serviced one of the harem (guitars, before your mind leaps blindly to the obvious concubine. Fuck. I mean "conclusion"). I pottered around, did my mandatory Martha Stewart impression, did some DIY, was fed like royalty, lazed about a lot and even won a game of chess.

Aaaah, sweet victory at "games night" - as short lived as it turned out to be. Unfortunately after the game of chess, everything went pear shaped. Trivial Pursuit and 30 Seconds were a disaster. My team got the sedately suburban equivalent of getting moered by a chain wielding gang of thugs in a dark alley.

Speaking of which, life in London still so wonderful, eh, all ye merry ship jumpers? You have to see what the Atlantic Seaboard looks like today. On this awful day in the middle of our uncivilised winter. Unfortunately sans plumes of smoke and destroyed shops, but we'll just have to make do...

Obviously I have read all and sundry's considered inputs and explanations on why a slovenly collection of good-for-nothing layabouts have decided to start rioting in England, and there are many, many theories, but I think it simply comes down to one thing. Well, two things. Firstly a moral decline among the more civilised of our world's societies (well in ALL of society, I suppose). And the eternal "rich get richer, poor get poorer" status quo. I can see this happening in a lot more countries where everyone is mistakenly led to believe that they are entitled to a life akin to that seen on day time soaps without having to work for it. And not being held accountable for their actions or failings. The world is ill. When a body is ill it rejects that which makes it ill or produces a counter punch. Sit tight kiddies, this is going to get more interesting before the facade of law and order is once more returned. Bubble bubble toil and trouble. Shakespeare, Nostradamus, McArb...

The world is sick. Led by money hungry corporate blah, blah, blah. Well, it wouldn't be such a hackneyed cliche if it weren't true. Now I will be the first to admit that I haven't thoroughly investigated what exactly is involved with "fracking" and as a scientist of sorts I am kind of obliged to go and check up before I make comments of the harmful variety, but this whole idea of pomping our Karoo full of allegedly poisonous water, sand and chemicals sounds like a pretty kak idea. So some really good people are standing up against this shit. Even Tarty was there, waving placards like a good Samaritan on a rare day off from the funny farm.

Speaking of Tarty and farms, a HORDE of us is (or are) going away to an undisclosed location (farm) and totally taking over for a weekend in order to re celebrate her 21st again. Redundancy is the new black, shurrup. You live in South Africa - it's like an early retirement present.

Shacking up with The Viking. These people better have their hetero party pants on...

And now that we have covered past and future, we can tackle present or near present. I am currently writing this blog post... there, that takes care of "present".

Near present involves a crazy evening of cacophonous collaboration as we attempt to synthesize some, erm, synthesizer noises from fresh air to add to our groovalicious sound at band practice. We have the unprecedented talents of Rose Thorn on keys, the bashfully brilliant technical know-how of Axxon's main man and the engineering nous of Fuck-We're-Really-All-So-Awfully-Pleased-You're-Getting-Laid-Again-Now-Wipe-That-Fucking-Supercilious-Grin-Off-Your-Face-Guy. A wealth of expertise by any one's standards. Tarty informs me she may pop in.

So. Back at work. Jeesh, that's sucked. Except for catching up on the world around me via the rectangular screen in front of me. Like some existential portal to a world that seems to be passing us by. Hey. At least we can attain immortality vicariously. And the stalking, yes the stalking...

NGDG: "I am really touched by my colleagues' well wishes. Of course the trolls and barbie men know better than to so much as look me in the eye. But I scorn their words. Like cheap underfelt in the carpeted room where one would keep a deformed monkey."

Spread The Love. Now Go Listen To 'Panic In The Streets Of London' by The Smiths. And Hang The DJ.

POSSIBILITIES - AN IRREVERENT FRIDAY CONUNDRUM

There is a very definite reason there is currently a pig on your screen. It has to do with the whole "choices" or "possibilities" theme. It works on MANY levels, but one specific reference. More than that I cannot, and will not, divulge...

A ragged haired friend of mine once sang, in his distinctively whiney voice "...filled with endless possibilities..." Now whilst this was essentially a very whingey song, being all DOEM MERRILL and such, it did allude to a certain positive frame of mind, one which I share on this fine ass IRREVERENT FRIDAY!

You see friends, Romans, countrymen, the sun is shining in the Mother City (despite the recent accounts of snow on the mountain - Derek Van Damn is probably doing some snow of his own) and the weekend looms large with all sorts of wondrous activities. So much for a quiet recovery from what has been one fucking tiring week...

Tomorrow the mighty Axxon convene. There will be big, nasty, groovalicious beats. There will be slick, sick, sublime, subliminal synths. There will be monstrous, malevolent, mindfucking guitars. I can't wait. There may even be a beer or two.

Followed by a starkly contrasting "games night" at a very civilised little house in the 'burbs. I'll report back on just how civilised that turns out.

Sunday involves drills and delicious lunches once again.

NGDG: "People who ask 'But is it fiction or a story or what?' in bafflement, deserve our pity because their lives will forever be colourless and one-dimensional."

Spread The Love. And The Winning Lotto Numbers If You Please.

FEAR AND LOATHING

Could happen anywhere. Could happen to you. Or someone you know. Who knows? Who cares?

Last night's band practice was a roaring success. We "pomped" our way through our entire repertoire of knock-out tunes (All except one, which for some or other reason refuses to be played) and then re-wrote and re-arranged our latest hit, 'Patrick Swayze'.

Yes, 'Patrick Swayze'. You heard me. Most of our songs have working titles as they are still in the process of having lyrical content finalised, and we decided to keep things humorous and interesting by naming each of them something unique. I thought I'd share this little list of working titles with you now, as most of you could probably do with a bit of a chuckle, albeit at our expense. Trust me, it'll be far less frivolous when we decide to pretend like we're a real band and actually play these songs. In public.

So, in some sort of rough chronological order:

1. Death Rattle


2. C.L.I.T. (Clever Little Industrial Track)


3. Unholy-Matt-Rim-Hony


4. Punk Song


5. Burn Your Dreams


6. Sludge 69


7. Pop Song


8. Doom Pop (pronounced like 'MmmmmBop' by Hansen)


9. Chopper


10. Squiggle


11. Hebidebodacious


12. Patrick Swayze

That's the one band. The other one has even more wondrously imaginative names, like 'Lord Of The Ringtones', but that's for another post on another day.

Alas, there isn't much more to report. Looking forward to doing as little as possible this evening - well, at Dinner Club. My turn to entertain and cook is only in 2 weeks time. I will be-Marthify them all!!!

Sounds infinitely better than getting Bea-Arthur-fied... Just saying.

NGDG: "Contiki Tours regrets to inform you that your application to join the youth-specific holiday Guilt Trip has been declined. May we recommend a mature option - Get Over Yourself, or the more exclusive The Road Less Travelled."

[*This may have been a quote from somewhere else - I take no responsibility for any copyright infringement.]

Spread The Love. And By Love I Mean Copious Amounts Of Deep Heat On My Back. Hey! I Said Deep Heat!

WHY? WHY? WHY? WHY?

Why do I persist in doing this to myself? Guess who lost a rather protracted fight with Black Label again last night.

Today, since I am hardly capable of coherent speech, nevermind an accurate recollection of last night, I thought we could get stuck straight into Neal Goldwyer's Daily Gem, and what a gem it is today!

NGDG: "Whether Miyeni's "burning tyre" or Malema's "shoot the Boer" talk is hate speech is moot. I personally appreciate the freedom of being able to say they should each be dragged behind a Toyata Hilux by the other's entrails. But they cannot be allowed to get away with excuses of "speaking metaphorically." What the yodels are employing is not metaphor, properly speaking, but synecdoche."

And THAT right there, my friends, is why he is being immortalised, at least in our little neck of the woods...

So. Last night then. The mighty Team Burger King graced YourLMG Pub Quiz with their austere and awe-inspiring (read 'profane' and 'pooh-flinging') presence again. There were questions. There were answers. Some were correct. Some were not. There was beer. And Tequila. And a Tarty. There was music. There was also a sadist hiding in the DJ box, inflicting upon us music-trivia-minded types a lesson in humility second to none. There was a rather charming and charismatic chap up front with a mic trying to bamboozle us with false clues and blind us with the dome glare. And there was a whole table of knobs that couldn't fill my sammitch order. And a male nurse.

Obviously, since it was a school night, Pub Quiz usually ends at around 11pm. I stumbled through my front door at 4am. Today has not gone well. And to make matters worse, not only did we manage a podium finish without winning again, but the effing Sammitch Makers beat us to second. Grated tits, anyone? They can be glad I love them, otherwise bazookas would be involved.

Let's hope I get some form of second wind before band practice tonight. Luckily I have a fridge full of, erm, Black Label to keep me going. Cyclic equations are the bomb.

Spread The Love. Choose Lifebouy.

METAL, MOVING AND MAGNIFICENT MAYHEM

And boobs. I luuuuuurve boobs!

I wanted to write about my adventures over the weekend, but was far too buggered to do so yesterday. I barely feel human yet as it is, but you, my adoring public, WILL NOT be neglected for another minute. Ok, perhaps a few minutes. As long as it takes me to write this account of misfortunes at least.

Friday night was a gathering of the close friends to help celebrate our friend Timmay becoming a father. He is now a parent. This goes hand in hand with saving for college, sleep deprivation and spending the majority of the time knee deep in runny, foul smelling baby pooh. And grinning like an idiot and beaming about how wonderful your child or children are. As compensation your wife has enormous boobs and is prone to whipping them out regularly...

Anyway, we stood around smoking fancy Cuban cigars, enjoying some awesome 12 year old Glenfiddich single malt and eating like kings. Quite obviously shit got out of hand and the next morning was greeted with something more than a mild hangover.

Than out to do some bass guitar window shopping with The Viking. Now one thing about "window shopping" off Gumtree you must understand, it involves a lot of telephone calls and driving. On hot Saturday mornings. With apocalyptic "drogies"...

The "drogies" were so bad in fact, that we decided to have a beer or 2. Then on to phase 2.

The Dean Of Univer City ever so kindly provided the party Land Rover and we wound our wild way to Stellenbosch and the annual Metal 4 Africa Winterfest. Pregame drinks were duly served all the way there, although the lack of in flight peanuts needs to be addressed. Anyway, cue an evening of deranged debauchery played out to a suitable soundtrack. Great friends, great event, great music, great performances. I thought that Cold Hand Chemistry and Ing were particularly entertaining and I'm very miffed to have missed Bulletscript, but I will most certainly make a plan to catch them soon. To the organisers, well done indeed - a roaring success.

I woke up - completely disoriented - in the Land Rover outside some place on Edward Street in Bellville at 4 in the morning. I thought I'd been abducted by some cult or other. I didn't feel very good. Thank God my people found me wondering around the street and got me home in one piece.

I had previously committed to helping a mate of mine move house on Sunday. I did. It went swimmingly. I fixed a toilet roll dispenser as well. All in all it was fine until Mumsy called to inform me I was 2 hours late for Sunday lunch and that all the food was "ruined"...

A few hours later and with a suitably "Sunday-lunched-out" tummy, I arrived at another friend's place. Actually, her ex boyfriend's place to be more accurate, the one she had just been asked to vacate. With my help.

I got home at 2:30 Monday morning with a stuffed back.

It's all good though.

Last night we were treated to some of Tarty Farty Tequila Party's gourmet cooking as she attended band practice, where she was in turn treated to Rose Thorn at her very best. Singing (or rather, playing keyboard) for you supper!

Which brings us to this evening's festivities. It is once again that time of the month. The first Tuesday of every one which means the might Team Burger King are going to assault the LMG Pub Quiz with our amazing knowledge, our offensive but friendly banter and our alcie breath! May the best team win! Obviously this hasn't happened yet, the Universe being particularly conspiratorial and unfair of late...

NGDG: "I mentioned Anthrax and death in a meeting with Senior Management. Sometimes you just need vivid hyperbole to make a point. Shame, een Oom het n bietjie gekak."

Spread The Love. And Do The Twist. Come On Baby!