CLEAVAGE ON MY FUCKING TOAST!

Boobs!

Boobs!

Boobs!

Boobs!

BOOOOOOBS!

Whip 'em out! Push 'em up! Jiggle 'em about!

Fuck I love boobs! I LOVE boobs!

Very subtle, TLC. I hope you haven't killed Byron.

Come on, ladies (yet another judicious use of a comma...) make with the exposure! I don't care how cold you "think" it is.

For the empowerment of women everywhere!

But more importantly, for my entertainment and enjoyment!

NGDG: "I don't mind eating humble pie. Even if it does taste like your mom."

Spread The Love. Squish Together Your Boobs.

XHOSA TRANSLATION FOR 'REVERENT'.

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FETCH ME MY STYLISH EARPLUGS!

So. Last night I ventured out of the relative safety of my lovely little home and, along with hordes and hordes of my mates, stood around in Mercury Live amiably chatting about this and that. We discussed the usual stuff. You know...

How you doing?

How's the band coming along?

The hot piece of ass that just floated by.

The next inopportune opportunity for Flapper to do his "thang".

Why do the local crowds wait until an international band graces our shores before they come out en masse in support.

Now, the answers to and comments about all of the above are quite generic and generally well rehearsed replies designed to create and sustain a warm fuzzy sense of well being among comrades. The latter, not, but we'll get back to that.

Obviously the question of turn out arose because a LOT of people turned out to see Fleshgod Apocalypse, a scary technical death metal band from Italy that uses loads of intricate orchestration and makes a huge, carnivorous, face-melting racket that'll punch holes in your very soul. Personally I was very proud indeed, being a resident old timer, of our Cape Town faithful for pitching up in their deliriously excited droves. I'd heard that some of the concerts so far on the Detonation Tour had been somewhat lacking in attendance and didn't want our little town, one renowned for its rich death metal culture, to embarrass us. This not being the case, the subject of attendance levels at gigs came up. Much was said and lamented about our rather fickle crowds, etc.

I disagree.

Now I may find myself knee deep in the shit before being told that tea time is over and it's time to do my hand stand, but the simple truth is that, much as we love to sing the praises of our local talent, no one from here is at THAT level. Holy mother of Baffy! The sheer ferocity was enough to boil the beer in the bottle you were holding. They MURDERED the crowd with what can only be described as a lesson in the art of performance. From the very first strained chord of the intro they captivated (and nearly decapitated) an audience that was so rapt and swept into fist pumping frenzy that I thought the venue was going to be destroyed beyond repair. For an hour or so we were treated to a spectacle of a stage show the likes of which has rarely been witnessed here, or will be for some time to come.

Now the argument can, and most likely will, be made that they're only that brilliant because they have opportunities that we don't. They tour the world. They play all the time. They have better infrastructure, fan base, and live venues. Which came first? The chicken or the egg? Personally I was jizzing along merrily, so I'll take responsibility for that one, but you know what I mean...

Sounds to me like it's a case of a band that work their arses off and are finally reaping the benefits - as are we, the adoring audience.

My congratulations to the sound and lighting guys, absolutely top notch! Mercury, you once again proved what a fantastic venue you continue to be!

Also, thank you to the organisers, the support acts (especially Suiderbees, who reversed my previously held negative opinion) and my good mates who shared this experience with me.

Lastly, to the band. Grazie molte! For your music. For your stage show. For your intimidating presence. For your friendly willingness to spend so much time with the fans. It was truly a wonderful experience having you here.

You're welcome to come back any time. I can always do with another arsehole. And to all my mates in Jo'burg - DO NOT DARE miss this.

And speaking of all things Italian, I purposely left out the best part of my report on the weekend's festivities so I could add it in this post. Purposely as in I was reminded quite sharply that I had failed to mention it yesterday. On Sunday night Rose Thorn and Commander Conker came over for dinner and the Hot Girlfriend made a lasagne fit for the gods themselves! It was especially impressive since it's my favourite dish and my good ol' mama makes a world renowned one. Bravo! Bravo indeed, bell'amica!

NGDG: "Neighbours: Can't live with them. Can't quite chop them up small enough so they go down the drain instead of clogging the holes like those bits of onion after washing the pots from a pasta dinner."

See, everything today is themed!

Spead The Love. Stendere L'Amore.

FRESH BLOG OF PORK 'n' CHIPS

It's all too much! It's literally just too damn much. I don't know how I'm going to cope. If I wasn't so ticklish and kleinserig, I'd definitely put a fork in myself. I'm done.

Friday I found myself out in the Northern Suburbs there by the Tygervalley, where I grew up and harboured all sorts of sordid hope for all sorts of sordid unions between all manner of "opposite sexy" types. Needless to say, back in the day these remained rather unfulfilled. Anyway, I ended up in a place I used to know as Kaballas (or something like that) and was filled with the horror of the memories of sideways-foot-to-foot dancing and dodging the attention of the local rugby brekers. And true to form, I walk in and the first person I see is someone I know. Typical. Made it through the evening, which turned out rather pleasant.

Saturday I had a double birthday braai, which can be taxing, especially when there are as many children involved as has become the norm. Although whilst at the braai, the Hot Girlfriend and I were given a nice surprise. TDB and Me Swifty had spare tickets to the Hop On Hop Off Peninsula Tour Red Bus and gave them to us. So Sunday we went a touristing!

It is totally rad! We saw sights we normally scurry right past and hopped off at the Constantia Wine Route and Mariner's Wharf in Hout Bay. The Wine Route took us wine tasting at Groot Constantia where, you guessed it, I knew the dude behind the counter and got extra helpings and free port. Then, amidst some nagging and moaning, we alighted at a tiny little boutique wine farm no one (well, me) has ever heard of. Eagle's Nest is awesome. It really is tiny. You feel like you're intruding in someone's home, but the wines! Oh! The wines! Certainly going back there.

Anyway, back to the Waterfront along the Atlantic Seaboard and home we went, spent.

Monday involved me mostly building a wall in my back yard and swearing a lot. Then Rose Thorn and I got down to some serious band practicing.

Roll on Tuesday. Fleshgod Apocalypse day. As is the norm in this wonderfully delightful industry, 'hurry up and wait' was the order of the day, so George 'Strident' von Skingrinder (or something) and I had a pint at the ever-pleasant Peddlers. After introductions and a few beers, the first interview got under way. Then the touring bands arrived and there was a whole lot more introduction and beer. Having had a very cool interview with Big Bennie from Bile Of Man (who happens to be a scholar, a gentleman AND a crazy bastard all wrapped into one...), it was time for me to usher 2 members from the main attraction into our Voice Of Rock interview cinema. Seriously, these guys are so well spoken, laid back, totally chilled, eloquent, passionate about their craft, friendly, professional and all round cool dudes, I decided to like their particular brand of mind bending "orchestragasmic metal" immediately. They offer an unrelenting barrage of technical death metal fused with ornate orchestration of such demonic dementia, that the listener is left with nowhere to hide, their sonic sledgehammer taking no prisoners.

Wow! I wrote that WHOLE description without using the word 'brutal'. Aaah fuck!

Anyway, if that sounds like it floats your boat, mozy on down to Mercury Live this evening and have a gander for yourself. I'll be there. With earplugs in. So I don't get blood on my shirt...

And then it was back to work. Urgh. I could so be a lady of leisure, lemme tell you...

NGDG: ""You're perfectly entitled to your opinion that Colonialism tore your culture from its paradisaical life-world but do you have to illustrate it with such garishly ill-matching coloured tshirt and trouser co-ordinations?"

Spread The Love. Just The Tip. Just To See What It Feels Like...

IT'S FRIDAY AND I'M FEELING IRREVERENT...

Irreverent, like when Mr Blackheart makes his comments about using chloroform and duct tape. Oh no wait. He's actually being serious...

Anyway, back to business. I have been far too busy for comfort at work of late and have found very little time to write my entertaining (like tuberculosis) and enlightening (like puppy pissed-on newspaper) blog posts for your enjoyment. Let's hope this unfortunate state of affairs will now be a thing of the past and I can once again slip into a more suitably leisurely pace - the kind to which my Capetonian arse has become accustomed. If I wanted to pay exorbitant amounts of money to work myself to death and for the simple right to use a road, I'd move to Jo'burg for sure. I'm just not sure if I'd ever get used to the idea of breathing with a knife and fork. Or how long it would take me to learn all the nightclub-fight-dodging rebuttals. You know, so the pop-up collar brekers don't moer me for having long hair. Or an intellect. Ah fuck me, now I sound like all the gaming nerds.

I was saying something about the e-toll system in Gauteng everyone is so up in arms about. I think we, as residents of the Mother City and custodians of the most enviable lifestyle in the world, have an obligation to ourselves and our way of life to stand against e-tolling as vehemently as those that stand to be affected directly by this barely veiled grabbing hands greed. You see, if the "novelty blue balls hanging from my towbar, I put my effie on whiff a wrench" types start seeing Cape Town as a viable option for relocation, we're all fucked. It's bad enough in tourist season, and even that is extending way past its threshold, but imagine an en masse immigration of Poly-shorted, mouth-breathing, mall-crawling workaholics INFESTING our scared space? Jeesh, can you IMAGINE what the Biscuit Mall will look like on a Saturday morning? Where the fuck are all the housewives from Tableau Voi going to go? South Africa will slowly begin to resemble Somalibabwe, as it fills up from the top with illegal border jumpers. Not that I blame them in the least, I squarely blame the "bring us your lame, deaf, defeated, poor, hungry, desperate and willing to undercut the going rate at which our lazy, entitled locals are prepared to pretend to work" attitude of our elected leaders. And I thought the African Swallow was non-migratory.

Speaking of, the lady of the night that frequents the corner right there by the Biscuit Mall (not so classy now eh, you fucking organic veggie, tofu wine, wanker yuppies...) had the good grace to show me her boobs again the other night as I drove out to pick up a friend of mine for band practice. She's got a kind of "Halle Berry sonne tanne" thing going for her.

I'm glad you asked. Band practices are going very well, thank you. Almost ready to take it to the next level of online talking without actually being able to show anything for it...

Except for Symphonaire Infernus. Now that's going to be a night to remember.

Incidentally, I will be off for a few days, doing boring things like interviewing Fleshgod Apocolypse and building walls in my backyard. I think there should definitely be beer involved. Starting as soon as humanly possible. Roll on beer-o-clock...

NGDG: "Merah, Merah, on the wall, and the pavement and the gutter and on the Peugeot parked nearby, who's a dead terrorist then?"

Fucking genius!

Spread The Love. Go Fuck A Genius. And No, DrHellCuz, I Do Not Mean Yourself.

SYMPHONAIRE INFERNUS

Does anyone here know what Doom Metal is? Well allow me to explain...

In the particularly eloquent outburst from my erstwhile stage manager, upon being exposed to some Grämlich (early Doom Metal pioneers in South Africa. Trust me, I should know...) back in the day, he exclaimed "Fucking slow and p**s heavy!"

Now if he'd added "dramatic", "poetic", "depressing" and "hauntingly beautiful" he'd have just about hit the nail on the head. 'Grämlich', after all, means 'morbid, sullen and ill-tempered'.

But don't let this rather moribund definition fool you. Oh no! What lurks beneath all the gloomy veneer is some of the most exquisite music ever composed. Bands like My Dying Bride, Paradise Lost, Anathema and Theatre of Tragedy have been blazing a trail of bereft beauty since the early 90s and have inspired many, many bands to follow suit.

Which brings us to SYMPHONAIRE INFERNUS. An event showcasing the talents of a variety of local musicians who will be playing a set of classic Doom Metal songs from the most notable bands in the genre. Musicians on display on the evening are from A Walk With The Wicked, Ashes At My Grave, Axxon, Crow Black Sky, Sex Cauldron, the yet-to-be-formally-introduced SubVerS and even some old farts from the one and only Grämlich. And no one song has the same line up of musos either - it promises to be a monumental evening!

14th April (the anniversary of Pete Steele's unfortunate death)

ROAR - Free Entry

We don't want to give away the setlist quite yet, so keep your eyes on the FaeceBoobs event, we'll be posting cryptic clues as to the songs we'll be playing... one by one...

Oh and did I mention the artwork? The beautiful, amazing artwork! Well done again Stephen Green. Yoh!

NGDG: "Brown paper, white paper. Stick it together with the tape, the tape of looo-ove. The sticky stuff!"

Spread The Love. The Sexuality Of Bereavement.

TUTUS 'n' TIARAS

Yes folks, it's that time of year again when I feel the need to do my good deed.

Remember last year when I made an absolute arse of myself in aid of raising funds for my dear friend's dad? If you still haven't seen the damning footage, go and have a look see for yourself how much fun can actually be had in a head-on gale force wind. What we won't do for the promise of a cold beer at the end, eh!

Here we go - the event page for TUTUS 'n' TIARAS.
As always, all proceeds go to TEARS (The Emma Animal Rescue Society).

AND the finishing line is The Banned Rock Lounge, who have very kindly agreed to give YOU a cold beverage upon completion of your good deed! Win, win!

So, how was your weekend? Mine was strangely chilled. How did the manic weekends and laid back working weeks somehow manage to swop around without so much as 'by your leave'? Vexing...

NGDG: "I've spent the whole day gunning around with the roof off and Dropkick Murphys going full blast. Oirish genes beat Prohep any day."

Spread The Love. Run Forrest, Run!

ROAD RAGE

I have it. In abundance. Or rather, I have an incredibly low tolerance level for anything related to stupidity, be it displayed by my fellow road users or anyone else. Anywhere.

I'm usually the epitome of laid back, so getting riled up while driving along and being considerate and listening to my flawless selection of music is even more upsetting. I get befuck because I allow these wankers to make me befuck. Yes, I know it's a knee jerk reaction, but what I wouldn't give for a more relaxed attitude to it or having the dumbasses simply removed...

Yesterday - at a 4 way STOP, I allowed the person and/or persons that had reached aforementioned STOP before me to cross the intersection before me. When my turn came around to go, Mr Blithely Unaware in his big ol' Land Rover just pulled out in front of me although I was more than halfway across already. When I subtly pointed out that he may be in the wrong - with a polite little parp of my hooter - I was dismayed to see a right arm extend itself out of the driver's window and courteously offer me the most well known of gestures, a middle finger. I really hope he heard my rather less than gently offered suggestion that he fuck himself.

Then there was the dickhead this morning who cut me off with what resembled malicious intent as I tried to enter a multi lane highway. Guess what moustachio-man was driving... and I mutter this utterance with as much disgust as I can muster... a flippin' Hyundai... Urgh.

The rubbish lorry this morning that saw me coming and insisted on blocking my ONLY option because it couldn't wait a whole 3 seconds also got a gentle verbal ribbing. I think they were genuinely affronted that I could out potty-mouth them.

And then all the trials and tribulations of the road evaporated away like the aroma of a used toilet freshener. I bought my Fetish tickets. One of the most iconic and loved bands, and I daresay my all time favourite, to come from our humble little country are playing a re-union gig in Cape Town at Mercury on Friday the 13th of April. If you have yet to experience the sultry, seductive, ethereally unreal and eternally introspective Michelle Breeze along with her band of musical magicians, then this is your one and only chance to partake in a slice of South African music legend. If you were around in those days and happened to fall for the mesmerising musings of this lot, than I am sure I will see you there. It promises to be a night of soaring, sweet nostalgia and bleak, blistered beauty.

Not to be outdone, and certainly never to be outshone, Shannon Hope stages 2 shows at the Fugard Theatre... a week later. I have seen here perform her bruised brand of heartwarming, heartfelt genuine genius there and it is as captivating a show as you're likely to experience. You know you want to.

So, having made it this far on a Friday - almost there. The woes of the week are fading into the rear view mirror and I'm looking forward to a weekend of chilling. Ja, I know I say that most weekends, but this time I mean it. I'm still recovering from the beating Ramfest dealt me and I am in desperate need of a holiday. Tonight we housewarm the charming little cottage of the inimitable Tarty Farty Tequila Party. I wonder just exactly how chilled that's going to turn out...

And tomorrow is St Paddy's day. "A pint of the black stuff please, landlord..."

Eish!

NGDG: "Shocking statistics reveal that fewer than 28% of children under 8 know the telephone number of their local emergency services. Coincidentally, that's about the same percentage of children who believe that vans contain candy."

Spread The Love. 25 Whores In The Room Next Door.

STEAK AND BLOWJOB DAY

One should be rare.

The other should be well done.

Mixing the 2 up is a particularly heinous crime.

But that was yesterday.

Today, as the very irritating song goes, is a brand new day. And I'm gatvol. Moeg, moerig en moedeloos. This working for a living lark is so overrated. And then when I get home, instead of taking a well earned rest on my only night off, I intend cleaning like there's no tomorrow. Eish!

Many recommendations have been made in order to make the chore more bearable. Well, two. Both of them involve load music. I think that I'll try and tackle the problem from a different angle though. Nice soft, soothing, "whoosah..." music to soothe the furrowed brow. Then I think taking my time is also in order.

Or maybe I'll just give in and put my feet up, crack open a cold beer and ignore the embarrassing filth. Maybe I can just summon Mr Muscle.

So, Tarty Farty Tequila Party. She's going to see some or other festival this year in Old Blighty. The headliners on the first night are none other than The Cure. There aren't enough expletives in the English lexicon to sufficiently convey my jealousy. It's just not right. I go to her house and the only 2 cds worth listening to (because music is subjective) are a scratched ol copy of 'Gobshyte' and a moth-eaten 'Standing On The Beach - The Greatest Hits Of The Cure'. These are invariably played when I am there. Because otherwise I whine. You walk into my house, however, and the full discography is proudly displayed, every single album release from 'Three Imaginary Boys' to '4:13 Dream'. Scattered among these chronologically filed and pristine condition discs are a large variety of singles and limited edition discs as well. It's quite possible that it is one of the most complete Cure discographies in these parts - at least as far as owning the 'originals'. I even have 'Boys Don't Cry'...

And I have yet to see them live, in all their dishevelled glory.

It pains me.

NGDG: "Don't you just hate it when your cardigan snags on your blotter?"

Spread The Love. EVERY Day Should Be Fillet 'n' Fellatio Day!

RAM A LAMA DING DONG!

You know what this one is going to be about! I have just survived, yes survived, yet another RamFest. What follows will be as accurate an account as I am able to filter from my mushy brain porridge. The mushy brain porridge goes with the broken body and the failing intestines.

You could say I had too good a time. I blame beer. And boobs. And stuff.

A prelude to RamFest:

• Excitement! Excitement! The day before I get contacted by Voice Of Rock wanting to know if I still want to interview In Flames. Get up off floor. Dust oneself down. Retain what little dignity you can muster and answer in an almost firm and assured voice that 'yes please, I would love to..."


• Proceed to tell everyone who will listen.


• After a radical party at JDP's celebrating the birthday of TNT, Saturday morning breaks upon us with a hellish fury. And by that I mean, I could already see that the weekend was going to be a scorcher. (Unlike the other, more usual way, when you rely solely on Faeceboob status updates from the legion of Captain Obviouses.)


• Glue Superglue to lips and teeth and tongue. Struggle to explain your dilemma to the Hot Girlfriend. Don't ask...


• Pack car, stop at bottle store and get your arse on over to Tableau Voi.
  

The Day Of:

• Enter the sandpit and walk for miles lugging all you camping equipment.


• Procrastinate with a well deserved cold beer.


• Finally get tent and blow up mattress sorted and go laugh at Andy in the Metal Tent coz he's wearing Crocs.


• Spend rest of day getting blitzed with a bunch of hairy oiks and eventually pass out on a blow up mattress that has officially given up the ghost.


• Wake up stiffer, more sore and grumpier than usual.


• Refrain from having a nice refreshing early morning beer because, you know, you're interviewing In Flames and would like to maintain at least a modicum of professionalism.


• Pay far too much for the worst cup of coffee ever made.


• Stand around nodding knowingly and making snide remarks as the organisers battle to keep to their time schedule.
  

RamFest Itself:

• Enter main gate and marvel at the CokeFest-ness of it all. Complain loudly and vociferously about the aural assault the fucking electro stage is inflicting on us. And I'm all for other genres, but special mention must be made of how utterly, unbearable and, well the only word for it has got to be "p**skak" Dubvader is/was/and always will be. I hate ripping off other "artists" but there is sweet fuckall salvageable about this lot.


• Greet ALL your friends and go into an in-depth discussion about how hellishly hot it is with each and every one of them.


• Notice the grammatical errors on the disclaimer sign boards.


• Give in and have a beer.


• Ride the Masturbation Drop Of Death and remark loudly how you can see down the top of all the lovely young ladies walking by underneath.


• Meet more friends and discuss the heat.


• Stand in front of the main stage mesmerized by the In Flames sound techs doing a sound check while Sabretooth are seen prowling around like caged animals at the back of the very impressive stage, raring to go.


• Withstand the heat from the sun and the stage as Sabretooth rip the whole fucking world a new one - seriously folks; mouth-gaping, awestruck, teenage-girl-flashing-her-tits amazed! They were simply on fire and the rest of the crowd most certainly seemed to agree.


• Missed next band to rehydrate.


• On walk Hogg Hoggidy Hogg. At times you could hardly see the band so much dust was created as the crowd simply exploded! It was as unreal a performance as I have had the pleasure and privilege of seeing these boys perform. They rocked the living shit out of the crowd with such consummate ease, it's easy to understand why they have been able to make the transition from local sweethearts to international stars.


• Missed next band to rehydrate.


• Fokofpolisiekar. What can I write that hasn't already been written? Probably nothing. The intensity these lads emanate and the riotous crowd response that verged on the violent should do all the explaining. If you don't already know, then nothing I say will ever educate you.


• Missed next band to rehydrate, although I was aware of some serious crowd action as Taxi Violence was holding court. I just didn't have the strength at that stage.


• And speaking of stages. I went back. As in backstage. All motherfucking Access Pass. After the obligatory hurry up and wait, Frankie Riester, Kathy and I were ushered into a big tent and introduced to Daniel Svensonn, the drummer from In Flames and proceeded to ask him questions, trying not to stutter or make an utter tit of myself. To his eternal credit, he answered all my questions like a true professional, no doubt having heard them all a million times before - what an absolutely cool dude. Laid back and very accommodating - thank you Daniel, it was wonderful having a chat.


• Went straight to beer tent and started the very serious business of catching up on previously missed-out-on rehydration.
  

In Flames time!!!

Stood with the rest of the restless crowd marvelling at the sound guys redoing soundcheck and having to hear something about a bogus "Health And Safety" check. Took the opportunity to heckle, rather loudly and obnoxiously, anyone and everyone in the general vicinity.

Then the world caved in...

IN FUCKING FLAMES played one of the most awesome sets in the living history of international bands visiting our shores. A perfect mix of new material mixed with highlights from a career of almost 20 years was performed so forcefully, so artfully, so enthusiastically, so so so so... MONSTROUSLY that even the usually apathetic golf-clapping Cape Town crowd LOST...THEIR...FUCKING...MINDS ! ! !

Starting with the uber-anthemic title track off their new album, Sounds Of A Playground Fading, they delivered a mind fuck, not a gig. By the time they bust out crowd pleaser 'Only For The Weak' as just their third of fourth track of the night I was already fucked. Talk about testing one's physical capacity for self destruction. No ways I was going to let all those thousands of people out bounce me! No, Sirree! And bounce I did! Horns in the air and rasping lungs bellowing out every word I could remember from their vast discography, it was a spectacular show, and a night, to remember.

• Utterly spent and high fiving the WORLD, some more rehydration. Then we watched most of the Infected Mushroom show standing in the queue for a schwarma. Not that I was complaining, those schwarmas were so good I'd queue for days to get one. Next time you're at a festival, check out Damascus Food Stall. Unbelievable.
  

Post Ramfest:

• Saunter off bruised, boozed and broken to the campsite.


• Indulge in more back slapping and warm beer until time to pass out on a flat mattress.


• Wake up to the gaggle of contenders for "Worst dressed" and even worse than that, "Worst spoken" group of idiots at the entire festival. Interesting fact I picked up this year. It is entirely possible to insert the words "bra" and "ou" into every sentence, more than once for preference.
  

Post post Ramfest:

• Get home, unpack, shower off 2 days of grit and grime.


• Attempt to sleep, but fail miserably in the sticky heat.


• Discuss the heat and those poor bastards who had to be at work.

All in all, despite the misgiving of the many, this was an utterly amazing Ramfest. My heartfelt congratulations to all involved. Now if you'll just let me die in peace...

NGDG: "Not every day does one learn of novel ways to lubricate vaginas. Working with women is like being caught in an outtake of Sex In The City. Still, beats rugby talk."

Spread The Love. Ask A Woman Near You For Advice. Otherwise Shit May Go Up In Flames...

IN - FUCKING - FLAMES ! ! ! ONLY FOR THE WEEKEND.

Pinch me! Punch me in the balls! I'm going to see In Flames play this weekend. In fucking Tableau Voi no less! The annual Ramfest extravaganza of music, mayhem, mindfuckery and Emo Hunting is upon us.

Ok, maybe not Emo Hunting, since apparently the new one day format does not sit well with the whiney, entitled group of miscreants that miraculously managed to popularise the skinny jort. But that's a GOOD thing. I will be spending the weekend camping in the biggest sand box in the Western Cape along with a couple of intrepid metalheads, no doubt causing as much kak as my bar budget allows. Then all the one day festival people arrive via what I imagine will be the longest queue of vehicles since the registration for the Argus the other day and the real party starts!

Oh wait, did I mention I get to meet the lads from In Flames! I didn't? Well, guess what. I'm interviewing IN FUCKING FLAMES!!! Frankie Riester, the living legend from Voice Of Rock is indeed a wonderful, wonderful, great man. Jealous much?

Oh and to cap it all off, local lads Sabretooth are playing as well. Get there early for your dose of serious shredding and maniacal virtuosity. There will more than likely be screaming, fainting girls and a lot of hair as well...

And then whilst the rest of you recover at work on Monday morning, the Hot Girlfriend and I will be packing up our tent and heading home for a bit of a lie in, methinks.

And speaking of unspeakable awesome metal, please go and check out this week's Flashback Friday, brought to you by Metal4Africa. Featured on these hallowed pages this week, and honoured for being the bad ass metal band of the 90s, is none other than Stinkrock's bastard Hellbillies, the inimitable Pothole!

Hope your weekend is going to be as terrific as mine. If I remember any of it. If any of you see me this weekend, make sure to take as many pictures as you can, so I can piece together what promises to be a spectacular adventure. Also, we can play "how many pictures feature my eyes closed versus open".

NGDG: "Dewey took the easy road. No visual imagination."

Spread The Love. The Heat Is On!

BRING ME VICTORY!

"I'd like to thank..."

Isn't that how all acceptance speeches go when you just WON SOME SHIT!?!?!?

Finally! At sweet fucking last! I don't know whether to laugh or cry or sit here wracked in my agony and relish this hellish hang over.

TEAM BURGER KING. The mighty, awe-inspiring TEAM BURGER KING finally did it. After years of podium finishes we finally cracked that elusive glass ceiling. We won the Pub Quiz! The joy was other worldly! Even the Mad Hatters scampered over with congratulatory hugs. Never has a victory been greeted with such unashamed gusto. And loud, vocal whooping and no small sense of relief. It was exactly how I imagine Jacques Kallis felt when he finally scored his maiden test double ton after a pair in the previous match.

High fives, much hugging, a tear or two and many a shot at the bar. I'm destroyed. I'm even more amazed that we managed to avoid going through with our pledge to drive to Durban.

What a night it was, though. What a glorious, glorious night! Even got limousine service courtesy of Tarty Farty Tequila Party and the ever trusty Basil.

So well done indeed to the greatest pub quiz team ever! Sheik Yerbouti, Lars-But-Not-Least, Tarty, TDB and the Brother-In-Awe. Well done indeed! Thanks to Jon the quiz master and Ray the sound clue guy. Thanks to Kevin. Thanks to Mike "Get get on the mic, get on the mic, Mike" Smith. Thanks to Mercury. And thanks to everyone that has been a part of our magnificent rise to the top - Ysie Meisie, Neek The Greek, TLC and Aunty Nexus, you have all been truly inspirational. [Edit: And of course the better half of the DSW and Me Swifty...]

And now I am left to contemplate what a dick of a bad winner I am being and wallow in my euphoria and the painful realities of the morning after...

NGDG: "My boss seriously just asked me what's 6 times 7. I'd have answered the meaning of life according to Douglas Adams, but I fear book references may be obscure if you never mastered the easiest of the Times Tables."

Spread The Love. Everyone Loves A Winner.

ROYALTY

1. Royalty: I am it. In my own world. I grew up telling my little buddies on the playground that I was a distant relative of the Prince Of Oranje. For some reason I thought that having Dutch blood entitled me to make such a claim. Later on I spent the vast majority of my time trying equally hard to impress. But this was limited to the ladies at The Playground, generally...

2. Royalties: Money earned from the exploitation through various media of one's intellectual property. Believe it or not I'm actually quite clued up on this stuff. Which brings me to how Die Antwoord butchered my favourite artwork ever, Jane Alexander's Butcher Boys. I can't seem to stay away from these wankers. They - or rather the culturally vapid vacuum in which they have been forced to flourish - are like a glorious car wreckage. We all slow down and have a good old gawk even while condemning the damn rubber necks. Anyway, click the link for a rather interesting view on the latest attention grabbing antics of the latest sensation to take America. Americans. Almost as backwater as South Africans. If this lot is any taste barometer.

3. Royalty Processing: This is what makes me able to claim a relative level of expertise in the above. And also the reason I have not been able to spew my vitriolic, verbal filth onto a screen near you for the last few days. Also directly responsible for turning me into a near-homicidal maniac and generally grumpy bastard. Working for a living sure does make one wish one were Royalty...

In far more flowery news, a great friend of mine and ex bandmate, The Peroni Girl, is here. We went out for a few drinks last night with The Delectable Bastard and his far better half, Me Swifty. What fun when your mates are here from abroad - legitimate excuse to go out and get dronk on a school night. As opposed to just doing so for shits 'n' giggles regardless. A mini tour of Obz's finest watering holes culminated in me ordering a draft beer called a Something-Or-Other Mexican at Panchos (oh the mind...). And dragging my hungover arse out of bed this morning under much duress.

Anyway, since I am going to be experiencing the wonder of Ramfest next weekend and will probably end up in some sort of drink-induced swirl of limbs whilst In Flames is playing, I have decided that this weekend I will take it easy. Let's see how that turns out...

NGDG: "The wall mounted First Aid kit, with its sharp edges and broken glass, has to be the most dangerous object in the office. They'd do better to nail a bandage to the ceiling and dull the nail head with a cork."

Spread The Love. The Eyes. I've Been Told They're The Windows To The Soul.