Wednesday, November 16, 2011


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Final conquests beckon!

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

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

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