Tuesday, January 10, 2012


Pregnant with infinite possibilities and wonderful opportunities. We are spoiled for choice - and the splendiferous surroundings in which to undertake them - when it comes to activities on offer.

You could get your ass on down to the beach and indulge in a spot of "laugh at the Vaalies".

Or you could light up a fire and sink a few cold beers - perfect day for it.

Personally, I'm opting for a leisurely snooze on the couch watching the cricket for the rest of the day/night. After I've hit the magic button on the front of the Defy dish cupboard of course. And rummaged through the 16 tons of left over braai meat from last night's incredible get together.

The Man From (Further) Down Under and his new girlfriend are visiting us in this shithole we call Cape Town (seriously, it's awful today...) and we threw a few scraps of flesh on the fire in their honour. And by a few scraps, I quite naturally mean I braaied for 3 hours solid, serving up 5 grids worth of perfectly braaied meat and even more unbridled drunken entertainment...

And then there were the Braai Broodjies. Anty Nexus, who came bearing gifts - thank you for the beer, luv, they'll be put to glorious use - misunderstood the instructions to bring along a block of cheddar and a garden variety onion. No, she had to pitch up brandishing a red onion and blue cheese, like a Nigella Of The Night. And it is a damn good thing that she did as well! Those were the best damn Braai Broodjies ever made! From now on, that's how they're being made. Once you've experienced the heavenly delight between two perfectly coal toasted pieces of toaster bread that we did last night, there's simply NO going back. So, thank you Anty Nexus! For inspiring a revolution in the not-so-humble-anymore Braai Broodjie. It is now considered - literally - food fit for royalty. Finally, something on my plate befitting my station.

And as so often happens, a serious conundrum occurred to me on one of my frequent visits to the toilet. No, not THAT one. I found myself, for some inexplicable reason or other, contemplating the "style vs substance" dilemma. Now I have always contended that it is simply the combination of striking hair and flashy guitars that have lent me any credence whatsoever as a musician. After all, I am the first to bleat about the so-called "models" and "photographers" that the digital age has plagued us with. So where does one draw the line? Is it ok for you to claim to simply be a bad or mediocre something? Or does one need to excel at whatever it is you're taking on before you can claim to be one? Being able to jog the 100m in under 26 seconds does not qualify me for inclusion in the SA Olympic Squad, although in this wonderful country's collective mindset, that's probably just the racists putting down the masses. Let them (ANC top brass) eat cake.

The word "recursion" contains the word "recursion" within itself. I got that from a webcomic.

NGDG: "3 days of quarterly planning. That's 24 hours of meetings. I bet someone's going to go Khrushchev and bang a shoe before it's all over."

Spread The Love. Stylishly. Substantially.

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