MORE THAN A TWIST

So I decided to try this altogether new and improved way of dealing with life. Some guru in Hollywood must have invented it as some new age lifestyle trend. You know, something to replace Botox and dog-in-a-bag. It's known as "sobriety" and it's come as a complete shock to my system. I feel irritible, disoriented and generally without purpose. This morning I left for work and my new clean jeans were sporting the latest in "sink splash in the crotch area" and "egg yolk on the knee" accessories.

I tell you, this is not for everyone. I wonder how many other people know about this.

Anyway, back to life, back to reality. It's turned out to be a beautiful winter's day in the Mother City. Apparently the proposed change of a name ala Prince/Artist Formerly Known As Prince/Symbol has already blown over. I can't imagine what kind of snowball effect that would have had on the local streets and landmarks. At least, of the few streets that have been renamed, Helen Suzman Boulevard is apt enough, going right past the biggest Old Tannie Home in the world, Sea Point.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is all I have for you today. I don't want to bore you with any more inane dribbling and my mom always taught me "leave 'em wanting more"...

NGDG: "Apparently 'What do homeless kids like to eat so I don't buy the wrong tinned food?' is not an appropriate response to the winter charity drive."

Spread The Love. Like A Care Bear Tummy Ray.

FLEETING FAME!

What happens when you Google "fame" and "boobs"...

I think Morrissey said it best when he intoned "Still... I'd rather be famous than righteous or holy..."
I tend to agree. If only for what I imagine to be the benefits of Motley Crue style debauchery backstage, or in a hotel room if it ever comes to that.

We certainly don't do the music bizz for money. This is a fact. It is the fact among facts. It is King Fact. An extremely talented local musician recently wrote a piece for Rolling Stone SA well worth the read about this very fact. A great example is Jay Yuenger who, upon being interviewed for the position of guitarist in White Zombie, famously agreed to live in a van and eat dirt in order to become part of the band. This is the set of circumstances we are forced to accept when entering the wonderful world of making music. Thank goodness I'm not all that good and have been forced to have a day job all along... Add to that my stoic unwillingness to turn to novelty as a means of attaining fame, and I'm doomed to obscurity and, at best, a small amount of local imfamy. I must be doing something right!

Anyway, all this stems from all the recognition I just got. I was asked my never-humble opinion on which songs currently rock my world, specifically metal tracks that have me secretly doing a happy dance in my slippers in my kitchen when no one is watching. Even if one of the songs I mentioned is a 12 minute doom metal song. A lot of silly twiggling goes on in my house when I'm Martha-ing about. Although even I draw the line at my own singing. Yes, my voice is THAT bad.

Anyway, go and read all about my TOP 5 Tuesday selection. It has music. And pictures.

Don't you think the weather is awesome today? Huh!? Isn't it radical that I don't have to go for a run this afternoon? Lazy has a new name. Yesterday I got home with every intention of cleaning and tidying the construction site I call home. Instead, after a Martha twiggle in my slippers while cooking dinner, I settled on the couch and watched 3 movies and drank bumtarded amounts of wine. I swear I'd die of boredom and alcohol poisoning if I didn't have as many extra mural activities as I do. I'd end up like that poor tubby bastard who died eating canned spaghetti on "7EVEN".

And speaking of deadly sins, a friend of mine remarked today that I should write a piece on my own vanity. Jees, thanks buddy! Is it really that bad? Yes, I'll readily admit to being a big fan of myself, but I can think of a few things I prefer over even me. And they mostly start with the letter B...

Look out of your window. Spare a thought for those less fortunate in this bollocks-crunching cold and wet weather. And if you can, lend a helping hand. If you can spare a warm top, or a pair of socks, make a difference in someone's life. Or simply find a place to which you can make a small donation. And be grateful that your only problems include the speed at which the internet allows you to read my drivel.

NGDG: "The best things in life are dead" [Above a picture of roadkill]

Spread The Love. I Follow Jessica Jaymes On Twitter.

BIG BANG WEEKEND

How is it possible, with all the lying around and sitting around that I managed to do without interruption this weekend, that I am still tired? I've been sitting here in the office dimming and brighting all day. Perhaps it's the aircon that's blasting in a balmy 26C...

Looks like I may have to resort back to crazy party packed weekends to maintain an even keel. I feel like Danny Glover in 'Lethal Weapon'.

You'd probably slash your wrists if I bored you with the details of my couch and bed activities, so I'll skip to the highlights - those that happened outside of my home. On Friday I sat at Rose Thorn's house in front of a roaring fire and drank beer. Not too much physical strain there. Unless you count flapping your jaw extensively. And going to the bathroom once the seal had broken...

And although I had a very productive and successful rehearsal with the crazy bunch from AXXON on Saturday afternoon, it by and large consisted of me parking my kiester on my desk chair as well. So no great breaking into a cardio sweat there either.

Sunday we celebrated my old man's birthday the only way my family knows how - in style and strictly adhering to the tradition of "die ou poephol sal betaal". Lunch at the JC le Roux wine farm (ok, sparkling wine farm - I just didn't want to bring Toilet up) was awesome. It was pissing with rain and we were inside trying to talk over each other in ever increasing volume while killing a few bottles of red and plates full of oxtail. Just about perfect. Again, this involved a lot of sitting.

Yet I'm knackered! Perhaps I'm growing an aversion to work.

In other news:

1. Tarty Farty Tequila Party still hasn't done her man list.
2. DrHellCuz and co are headed down South for this year's Metal4Africa Winterfest. Should be entertaining...
3. I have now identified 4 different kinds of caterpillars in my plants, all of whom now meet a swift death upon discovery.
4. Cape Town (according to some report, bogus or not) is set to have a wee name change. To something only 7 living people can pronounce. Personally I hope it's a rubbish report. It probably is. If they'd intended changing the name of our beloved Mother City, by now it would surely already have been named Winnieville or Boesak Town.
5. A new form of hipsterism has just been confirmed as the trending Winnieville, erm, trend. You've got to sport at least 2 out of the three of the following tattoos: cherries, dice or an anchor, wear clothes that were last in fashion in the 50s (which, like all Boesak Town trends includes bad hats) and listen to unbearably drab, formulaic and unimaginative rip offs of Them Tornados or The Psycho Reptiles. [*At least Th' Damned Crows rock...]
6. I know I'm a little (ok, a LOT) behind the times, but David Thorn is my new hero.

Also - and I'm probably more guilty than most, but let's put that down to uncontrollable arrogance and narcissism - the damn internet has given the entire world a chance to spew forth their lopsided, uneducated, bandwagon opinions on EVERYTHING. Without taking the trouble to check out the validity of that which they condone or over which they express shock. I wish there was a "take the log out of your own eye before commenting on the splinter in someone else's" button - like a 'Terms and Conditions Apply' kind of thing. The emphasis obviously being on "log out". Dumb fucks.

And a great big sloppy HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY to your and my favourite - the beautiful yet dangerous Rose Thorn for today! Looking good! We here at Monster Inc love you!

NGDG: "Can I put this tongue down now? Because I'm tired of holding it."

Spread The Love. And The Gospel Of Brian Setzer.

MAYONNAISE. VERSATILE.

Taking sunscreen a bit far?

Yes, EVERYTHING is better messy and when she's on all fours with her tongue out. It's a rule and a Universal truth. Test it if you don't believe me...

So welcome to your and my favourite day of the week. Yes folks, it's Irreverent Friday, except if you're Neal. Pity the weather in Cape Town is so wonderfully stay-indoorsy. Otherwise we'd be hitting the Town, painting it red, sniffing petrol tanks and playing chicken with Metro cops. Although the fun is summarily sucked out of any game you play with Metro cops the minute you realise they're the dumb bastards that didn't make the grade to become SAPS and are therefore not allowed to carry crowd subduing weaponry. Basically, they're not even qualified to sleep in their cars under a tree at lunch time.

It's been busy this week. You may have noticed my absence from the ether yesterday. Or more likely not. Boy, am I glad it's weekend. If I put a sea shell to my ear I can hear Gareth Cliff's nasal chant. Why do I suddenly crave Appletizer?

So what does everyone have planned for this, the end of the month Salti-Crax weekend? I have Axxon rehearsal, Rose Thorn's birthday and a Sunday lunch at JC le Roux. But tomorrow night you'll not see me. I'm staying in, cocooned away with the Hot Girlfriend and the world be damned. Pass the anti-wrinkle cream.

But nothing compares (nothing compares...) *Sinead O'Connor* to the excitement beaming from 2 great friends of mine, who are to be reunited after a lengthy business trip tomorrow. And for this, the latest "D'Aaaaaaaaw-Win Award" goes to the Vi-King and Sheik Yerbouti. Hope you two have a wonderful weekend.

So. Go do your thing. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Unless you're a girl. Peeing sitting down is always a good idea.
I think...
Um.
NGDG: "And now joining the ever popular line-up of Butt-rape Monday, We-need-this-yesterday Tuesday, Half-day Wednesday, Fuck-you-that's-why Thursday, please welcome Car-crash Friday."

Spread The Love. Under The Covers.

FISTING SPECTACULAR!

I'm doing research into how much the heading has an impact on how many reads I get per post.

Much like John Cusack's character in the classic movie 'High Fidelity', I am sometimes prone to list things. Actually that is an utter fabrication. Total rubbish. Truth be told, I'm more like an unfortunate amalgam of the two delinquent music fundis that work for him in the record store. But I needed something to introduce this, my Top 20 of My Favourite All Time Songs That Never Fail To Inspire Me Or Make Me Feel Better. Or Just Simply Happy And Content. More So Than Usual:

1. Better Than You - Swans
2. Mona Lisa, Mother Earth - Swans
3. 100 Years - Cure
4. Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division
5. Every Day Is Like Sunday - Morrissey
6. November Spawned A Monster - Morrissey
7. Take My Scars - Machine Head
8. One Last Goodbye - Anathema
9. Faith Divides Us, Death Unites Us - Paradise Lost
10. For You - My Dying Bride
11. From Darkest Skies - My Dying Bride
12. Can't Bee - Moonspell
13. Mutter - Rammstein
14. Edie Ciao Baby (Acoustic) - The Cult
15. Chord Of Souls - Fields Of The Nephilim
16. What I Am - Edie Brickell & The New Bohemians
17. Heavy Weather Traffic - Katydids
18. Amelia - The Mission
19. If I Had A Soul - V.O.D.
20. The New Style - Beastie Boys

This is not in order and is subject to change, but a lot of the tracks that mean a lot to me are in there. Go and have a listen to them if you feel like it, for your own edification or simply for your own nostalgic purposes.

Reminds me of that guy in the army that had a thing for Prince's 'Purple Rain'. The song, not the entire album, which has my favourite Prince song on it, 'Darling Nikki'. Anyway, snuggled cozily in the bleach-permed bosom of Bloemfontein, trying to make it through a year of avoiding the fucking morons with pips (and chips) on their shoulders or stripes on their arms, I found myself in a bungalow with a guy called Bennie. This cat had a little radio/cassette player. He liked 'Purple Rain' so much, he'd play it, then rewind it, then play it, then rewind it, then play it, then rewind it, then play it, then rewind it, then play it, then rewind it, then play it, then rewind it, then play it, then rewind it, then play it, then rewind it, then play it, then rewind it, then play it, then rewind it, then play it, then rewind it, then play it, then rewind it, then play it, then rewind it, then play it, then rewind it, then play it, then rewind it, then play it, then rewind it, you get the picture...

I, on the other hand, had a monstrous old-school ghetto blaster type of affair and one day had had enough of the artist who at that time would still become known as Symbol. So I upped the ante and the volume. It was entirely coincidental that I happened to have a copy of Paradise Lost's 'Gothic' album in at the time. This was not met with much approval.

To cut a long story short, upon arriving back to the bungalow later that evening I found all my possessions, including the boom box and my bed out on the gravel in front of the bungalow. And myself denounced as the bringer of the plague and taker of vestal virgins. It took some persuading and a threatening gesture with a golf club to be reinstated. I don't suppose the fact that I was trying to shag his girlfriend had anything to do with it...

Aaaaaah, mammaries!

And for those of you wondering about my leanings towards heavier, more intense music and why there is such a poor representation on the list above, it's simply that I didn't have space for such gems as 'Heretic Anthem' or 'War Ensemble' - I'll have to bring out a new and improved list at some stage. Just like Tarty Farty Tequila Party, who has yet to regale us all with laments about what women want. In a man. Or is it the other way around, I can never quite remember...

NGDG: "You haven't been to Nandos until you've been to Nandos Gandhi Square and seen a waitress wrestle a deaf vagrant to the floor for selling sign-language postcards to the patrons."

Spread The Love. Ain't Talking 'Bout It.

ETHICS... AND BOOBS. WITH SLAYER.

Yup. That'll do nicely...

Surprisingly, something I feel strongly about. The fact that a few beers generally is enough to wipe the moral compass from my mind has zero to do with it. I came across found a picture that was so superawesome I decided to use it for my daily blog pic, but after some consideration, decided instead to supply you with the link so that you could go to the artist's page yourself and see. I haven't got the time or inclination to mail and ask for permission, therefore I should not be allowed to use it. Now I shall have to go and look for something else altogether. I hope whatever it is I ended up putting there is worthwhile...

This is the picture I originally intended using:
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=189831154376959&set=a.189831121043629.56135.189799451046796&type=3&theater

Mainly because I like boobs and I know people who have a thing for tentacles.

Anyway, back to life, back to reality.

It's Tuesday and it still feels like Monday. Had a busy weekend, see. Between recording, writing, rehearsing and more recording, I spent roughly 12 hours in my studio. Then it was time to don the Don outfit and go to the fancy dress where the theme was "dress fancy". I had no idea all those skrammonks had such dapper threads. It was like a scene out of Bugsy Malone. Without the ice cream. Also in attendance were our favourite friends, Cuervo, Jagermeister and Absinthe. It was a fuck up. A glorious, glorious fuck up. I swear that flat does something to people once they're inside...

Sunday was a Double Dad's Day. Each event had a three course meal. I don't know if it was the hangover, the tiredness or the over eating, but I was finished. Op soos weeshuis pudding.

To cap it all off, LordDoom and UntilRecentlyKnownAsHalfPint bought me the David Thorn book. I can't put it down. I laughed myself to sleep the other night. How very goth of me...

Shit, I still have to find a picture.

Anyway, as if the weekend wasn't enough, I will be in studio tonight and tomorrow night. Big things they is a-happenin'! Do not change the channel.

Ok, I'm going to go picture browsing quickly.

Found it!

Good thing too, otherwise I might have been tempted to use this (NSFW). The Vi-King posted that link just too late. Phew!

NGDG: "Welcome the butcher's Muse. That bleached caterwaul, I refuse to spend money on, as she rebuffs the condom. But she'll tweetle her twaddle, hashtags our douchebags and say 'hey, them bitches got money'. And honey, that's inches enough for me."

Spread The Love. R - E - S - P - E - C - T.

TOUCHING YOU! TOUCHING ME!

Welcome back to your working weeks, everyone.

I don't know about you lot, but I think I've had enough already. Can't it just be Friday again? Actually I was fine and then the intrawebnets started lighting up like that SLAYER house at Christmas. The big buzz? Lady "I don't wear Vegan dresses" Gaga is coming to our shores. Accompanied by The Darkness and their own particular brand of schmaltz.

I remember being subjected to an entire weekend of The Darkness in Langebaan once. The band I was in at the time was away for a weekend and our beloved founder/guitarist had brought along "Permission To Land". In the strictly ironic (I assumed) way that metal heads the world over antagonise each other with novelty/crap music, he made us spend all weekend listening to Justin Hawkins' snaggle-toothed assertions that he indeed did believe in a thing called love. I turned to drink to make the weekend bearable and can't for the life of me remember much. This goes a long way towards explaining substance abuse on the road and general addiction.

Let it be said that in general I do not have a problem with any band or artist. It is when I am forced to listen to them against my will or when their popularity becomes a sign of the times that the ire starts to rise. My world does not include the likes of Justin Bieber. He is just some entity that does his thing on another plane of existence. The fact that he is so successful is a product of a consumer driven populace with a short attention span, and nothing to do with me.

Lady Gaga. Or Stefanie Germanotta, as her mother once used to know her. I detest acts like Marilyn Manson. The above notwithstanding, it gets to me when otherwise seemingly competent artists feel the need to resort to such sensationalist tactics in order to grab the attention of the masses. I detest them for what they stand for. And what they stand for is a willingness to embrace the tacky, turgid and terrifyingly shitty in order to be noticed. The masses demand that extra effort. My only gripe is that the extra effort is not channelled into a better musical product, and instead channelled wholeheartedly into turning themselves into a fucked up caricature of themselves. If Lady Gaga spent half as much time on her music as she does on wearing Mzoli's on the red carpet, who knows what she'd be capable of in a recording studio...?

But I am getting away from my point here. And that point is: Justin Hawkins and Lady Gaga, you may be playing a show together in South Africa, just please for the love of all things holy, do not make a baby.

The world is not ready for that.

NGDG: ":I found two steak knives protruding from the lawn at the folks' place yesterday. Drunk neighbours? Kids playing ninja, or the Palestinian resistance has finally reached its nadir."

Spread The Love. I Believe In It. It's A Thing.

AGAIN. NO REST FOR THE WEEKEND.

Yesterday after work I continued my new exercise routine. I run. Not because I want to or the fact that demons are chasing me. Or even because the bottle store is about to close. But because my other form of exercise has been sneakily stolen by children and laziness. Not the fault of the 3 other guys that are still interested in playing football, mind you, but 2-a-side is a sex position, not a football game. Everyone else is more concerned with feeding, changing and putting their little bundles of joy to bed so they can be kept awake all night and be reduced to a sickly husk of their former selves.

So I run. A few short months of no footie combined with my normal "good life" and the boep is in proud South African Male evidence. Not too much of an issue, but if not kept in check threatens to upset the balance of the Universe, as well as my own.

Yesterday's run was hell. Strange. It was the most perfect weather and I felt fine. Until about a 3rd of the way, at which time my lungs gave in and stitches set in. And those long gangley things used for perambulation sticking out the bottom of my hips decided that enough lactic acid was enough.

Which explains the nice long relaxing bath I indulged in when I got home. Which set the tone nicely for the evening. Remember how I lamented 2 days ago that I really needed to have a completely relaxing night in? Well, last night was it. Glorious.

And that brings us right to the point where I explain how that rest is going to be very needed over the coming days. Tonight I record a very promising up-and-coming band. Very exciting. They do a vintage rockabilly with a gritty, dirty twist and an almost malicious sneer that's sure to win them a lot of fans. Seeing as the genre is so inexplicably popular right now. At least give me Them Tornadoes or Stray Cats over that other lot...

And tomorrow the horrid hordes of AXXON convene to rehearse what is to be a set of murderous masterpieces, designed to lacerate your spleen and pound your head in while you stomp 'n' holler 'n' headbang in a frazzled frenzy at Metal4Africa's Winterfest. Should be good fun for the whole family. Especially since DrHellCuz and the Pie Gang Ovva Norff am coming down for it...

Speaking of upcoming musical events. It's just been announced that Eagles Of Death Metal are confirmed for One Night Of Something Or Other at Grandwest on 9th August. I googled them. They don't sound anything like death metal...

And then it's time to get all dressed up and attend the fancy dress for which the theme is simply to dress fancy. I'm going in my Sunday best. The only problem with that is that instead of looking like a wealthy patron on an exclusive eating establishment I always rather come off as the fucking waiter.

Sunday is Father's Day. I hope the lot of you are going to be spending the day with the men who gave a little of themselves so that you may exist. If you can. I know I am. Not ashamed to admit it - my Pops fucking rocks. Hey, the man was even a drummer for a rock band in his youth. Plus he always has a fully stocked beer fridge for when we come around.

And on that rather reverent note, which is kinda funny for a Friday, I shall bid you a happy weekend. If you're still at work, you're probably not in Cape Town. I'm counting the seconds until I can find an excuse to fuck off.

NGDG: "I want to die in my sleep. Not terrified by the onrushing concrete barrier like the strippers in the limousine."

Spread The Love. Stick Up For Your Father. He Stuck Up For You.

IF YOU GO DOWN TO THE WOODS TODAY...

... you probably live near some woods.

See I was going to start off with something altogether different, but this just popped into my head. As things do. And so I went with it. As I tend to.

Actually, it reminds me of my youth. No, not that I ever went to a teddy bear's picnic (that happened much later in life), but that I am from a generation that was subjected to the heinous practise of "initiation". And by that I mean the general high school hazing that you have to suffer at the hands of your seniors just because they intend exacting revenge on the people who did it to them. Not have your genitalia mutilated to please some withered old biddy blind from too much homegrown spirits.

Not that the acts of initiation are ever revamped, reworked or improved upon. I bet you sticking a 13 year old boy's head in a toilet goes waaaay back. I must admit to particularly liking the one where you had to measure the inside of a girl's leg with a match end-over-end and when you dropped the match, were forced to start from the beginning. I also didn't mind the carrying stuff around or mild rebukes.

At this point it should be pointed out that the Matric Goliath that took a particular interest in me was none other than Shaun Koen - of South African Heavy Weight Wrestling fame. He used to delight in hanging me upside down precariously over a gaping stairwell and make me sing dirty songs - and all because with a startlingly bright brushcut, I was known far and wide as Billy Idol. One of these dirty songs started off very much like the line in the heading, but just went directly past begin, did not collect R200 and ended straight in "red faced from embarrassment and not blood rushing to my upside down head". If only I knew that a few short years later I'd be consumed with trying the very subject of my ditties out on any young lady willing to give me the time of day. In hindsight, it was probably the audience being tortured, considering my singing voice.
Strange then, that I should still be equated to Billy Idol. I actually got up on stage and mimed along to Mony Mony once at a school dance. On a dare. For R2. Which I still haven't received. Must be where I got my taste for adulation. Or at least, scorn and pity disguised as adulation...

And my resigned acceptance of playing for no pay...

Anyway, I feel that I am a better person for having had to experience initiation. It taught us a level of humility that was necessary back then. Somehow the liberals got it wrong in the ensuing years though. By the time it was my turn to victimise some hapless lightie, the practise had been banned. In fact on our "40 days" a particularly vigilant teacher with fuck all better to do than spoil our innocent fun put a stop to our intended "bog-brushing" of one of my mates' younger brothers. We'd have been very unpopular for having our Matric Farewell cancelled...

Anyway, it was chaos. Once, a kid ran up to me and punched me and ran away and there was nothing I could legally do...

And don't even get me started on the retarded mass gymnastics routine we were expected to do in our final year for the opening of our new local stadium. We disagreed. Our headmaster actually went up an entire octave, morphed into a delightful shade of demonic purple and threw his lunchbox at his desk. Our barely concealed guffaws didn't help matters much.

Ah, school rocked! I can't imagine how people couldn't have enjoyed it. Here's an institution that forces all your friends to come together every day and hang out. And people complained?

NGDG: Today the honourable Neal Goldwyer chooses to quote from the one man in this world that is more droll than he is. John Cleese "Greece is collapsing, the Iranians are getting aggressive, and Rome is in disarray. Welcome back to 430 BC[E]."

Spread The Love. Now Also The Tagline For Cell C... Fuckers.

NOSTALGIA

Today I miss the simpler times. When you only knew your parents and 3 cousins. When what you wore did not define you because your mom dressed you in something more or less functional and you didn't give a fuck. When responsibility was a completely foreign concept. When taking a nap in the afternoon was mandatory. When the idea of reward for being "good" was a small bowl of sweets for not fucking shit up or making too much noise. When the worst punishment you could receive was a bit of soap in the mouth or a spanking. When lifting up a girl's dress was the pinnacle of achievement and elevated you to legend-status among your peers. When there was still anticipation and wonder. When bills weren't your primary source of correspondence...

Alas, all we have today is a disappointing series of events, permanently trying to find that something to reignite our passion for life, love and everything else.

Perhaps I should be in a goth or a doom band...

Hehehehe. Here, life. Have a middle finger. Whoohoo! Almost beer time!

I wish I could report back that I spent the evening soothing my flustered soul in spa-like surroundings, cucumber over the eyes and enjoying a candle lit bubble bath. It's what I wish I could do on a night when I have no engagements. I've watched far too many Radox adverts. Alas, I would be lying if I did.

Instead, in a last ditch attempt to avoid the onset of middle aged flab, I flung my ever softening carcass up and down the Promenade at varying degrees of pace and corresponding lung cramp. Maintaining an air of cool, aloof self respect is hard when one is gagging for air through pierced lungs of fire and fighting to see through the red mist of death taking over one's vision. Although the pretty jogger girls are a sufficient incentive not to barf, and just keep on going. That, and the Wally Hayward impersonator that kept me in his potentially dangerous wake for half of my run. Ego - as effective a motivator as boobs.

Anyway, after that ordeal it was off home for a much anticipated night off. Which was basically filled very quickly with chores. I don't have time to do them otherwise. Fuck I hate this aspect of adult life. The never ending list of things that need doing in order to maintain a lifestyle that doesn't resemble living under a bridge. Makes me admire my parents even more for managing it for so long.

Looking forward to tonight, I hope to achieve the up til now impossible. In a startlingly bold manoeuvre reminiscent of David Attenborough discovering a rare species humping, I will attempt to record some stuff. In my studio. At home. It promises to be the beginning of a wonderful new era in music. Not the local music scene. Or anything else that limited. Just "music". That's how excited I am.

Anyway, seems time is running away with me today. I intend getting home post haste and having a nice cold beer.

So see you all tomorrow.

NGDG: "My gaffe of the day. Jokingly telling the company's Vice President 'don't be nervous', meaning 'in this afternoon's presentation', when in fact he's not the one presenting at all. Out of the context in my own head, this may have seemed an unusual thing to say to a man at a urinal."

Spread The Love. It Bites.

TECHNO-TARD

No offence to the Special Olympics participants. This is about me, not you. Me. The one sitting here with an incongruous grin on his face singing "No, no! No, no, no, no! No, no, no, no! No, no, no more techno!!!" A lovely little hit by Cape Town's beloved Lithium back in the day. Come on, you know the words!

It actually refers to how unsavvy I am when it comes to technologically progressive, well, anything. Like our new irksome app of the day. The "Dislike" button on FaeceBoobs. I consider the vast majority of my "friends" to be either well chosen or having been around long enough to properly qualify. What I didn't count on was the avalanche of people I know actually asking me to go and approve this app. What, were they giving away free toasters or something? Did the millionth app-hitter-on-lemme-have-it-er get a blowjob from Megan Fox? (Please note - the reference to Megan Fox is completely arbitrary and she would first have to sign a "no thumbs" waiver.)

All this resulted in someone I know chirping from the peanut gallery that it's entirely possible to "block" apps. Now I have spent some time trying to find a thingy anywhere that says "BLOCK APP" to no avail. Am I that techno-tarded? Ok, given, I can't even use my own guitar effects unit and don't even ask me to rewire Reason into Acid Pro, but I can put wires into big sound systems and make them make noises. Is it because life is virtually virtual these days? Probably. Tangible went out of fashion long ago. It's not so easy to get rid of, upgrade or ignore.

We're all going to end up being incapable of walking because our limbs have atrophied, like in Wall-e.

So I'm going for a run after work. Thank goodness the sun is out. Otherwise my fragile conviction would melt.

Today also marks the introduction of the "D'aaaaaw-Win" Awards here on the Mysteriously Malodorous Musings Of The Monster Thingy. And it is little wonder that the inaugural "D'aaaaaw-Win" Award goes to the Meyodies! Congrats to the Meyer Of Awesomeville and his Better Half. That. Tat... That's the shit!!!

In other news, I made up a rude word today. Well, I was asked to come up with something suggestive/x-rated and VOILA! a new word is born. "Asumo-wrap" referring to the rather compromised position a young lady might find herself in if she...

...Ha! You thought I was going to tell you?

NGDG: "I care deeply about the issue of deforestation. Especially deeply at times when people ask me to print something out for them."

Spread The Love. Asumo-wrap. It IS A Thing.

FROM CHEQUERED PAST TO CHEQUERED FLAG

In which I report back on yet another weekend. It's almost like I have superhuman reserves. Unfortunately not, dear friends, as you will soon come to realise. When I'm being airlifted to the nearest bottle store for immediate resuscitation.

I can't remember Friday.

But Saturday started off like Saturdays are MEANT to start. The neighbours removing (think Nicholas Cage saying "Face...OFF!") the entire facade of their house in order to build an extended carport. This required a number of large power tools and an inordinate amount of bashing stuff with sledgehammers. Oh yes, now I remember what happened on Friday night. I drank my body weight in wine whilst watching movies at home, preparing a particularly zesty hangover. Back to the neighbours. I am not allowed to be upset at their ungodly act of terrorism. Mainly because they have for 6 years put up with innumerable parties and band practices, not to mention my own renovations. So I reckoned - after unsuccessfully attempting to block out the thud and racket - to join them, since I wasn't beating them. I wondered out in the morning sunshine with my coffee and watched the demolition happen brick by painful brick, speculating how long it would take one of the flying chunks of plaster to hit my car...

Anyway, this was quickly interrupted when I was shaken from my reverie and realised I had an hour to be ready for the big day at the races. And I'm not talking about swanky outfits and "Move your bloomin' arse, Dover!" either. I'm talking about the thrill of avoiding the piles of tyres - the only thing between me and a concrete structure of certain death - whilst travelling with my arse 3 inches from the ground at a million miles an hour and wearing a hairnet. Add the most strenuous arm workout I've had since I was single and you have...

...Go Karting!

Gathering at the Kenilworth Ring Of Death, erm, Go Karting place, I eagerly parted with the national debt of Somalia and drew numbers to find myself not only at the back of the starting grid, but only in the second heat as well. After watching the first batch of my friends have the life-threatening time of their lives and taking notes on how to take corners, I donned the helmet the fine establishment had kindly donated to me and thanked them for the hairnet. Lice, it seems, were very much a possibility. As was the shocking revelation that if you neglected to tuck your hair INTO your helmet, you ran a serious risk of being scalped if it got caught in the rear axle. Apparently there is a documented case of this having happened. Filled with horror now, on top of shitting myself at the prospect of moering into a wall and being told that I couldn't have a quick pre-race beer, I revved up Kart Number 4 and settle in at the start. Apparently when the lights go green you're supposed to be looking up and taking notice and not concerning yourself with the child's seat biting into your hip. So it was off to a bad start. After a while I seemed to get the hang of it and started to enjoy myself, taking in the sights and sounds at a leisurely pace. No sooner had I gotten used to the decibel level, the steering wheel that wouldn't turn and the overpowering au-de-petrol, than I was overtaken by a small Mancunian fucking maniac who seemed hell bent on killing himself and all others on the track. Being shaken from my lethargy I decided to concentrate on the hairnet in front of me (belonging in this case to TDB) and making a fist of it. Successfully avoiding crashing and any altercation of any kind (I let the faster guys pass me the same way I avoided the "ruck" in grad 1 rugby) I eventually finished. In tact. Although I was the only competitor among our friends that didn't stall I still managed to come stone last overall. A success in my book, since I had visions of blood splattered remains having to be identified by their dental records before I started. It was - in the end - thoroughly enjoyable, but I think it's safe to conclude that I'm no motorsports enthusiast. Besides, the look of grim determination and enjoyment on Commander Conker's face was what it was all about.

On to the rugby at the Tafelberg Tavern. Now this is more like it! Booze on tap and a nice chilled atmosphere. THIS is a sport I can say I rather enjoy. Spectator!
Adjourning to the home of Commander Conker and Rose Thorn, we were treated to a delightful Spaghetti Bolognaise, the same as I had made on Thursday, had had for leftovers on Friday and was to have last night as well. If I SEE another tomato based pasta sauce...!

Then, after a brief trip home to change into our fancy clothes, it was off to Van Hunks for the 30s Gangster themed birthday party of Up Side Down Girl. I love Van Hunks. Like I love wearing a broken glass catheter. Anyway, despite myself I was having fun, mainly because The Hot Girlfriend was there and the designated driver...

Sunday was earmarked for staying beneath the covers and making the most of a dreary day and one of the last before an extended study hiatus. Obviously it was one of the nicest days of the year and we found ourselves at Dune's in Hout Bay along with the rest of the delinquents for the birthday celebration of Slappy. Fun was had, drinks flowed and I came home with a Jose Cuervo straw hat. Tarty Farty Tequila Party was there. She sat next to some bird who, get this!... claimed not to know what tea-bagging is. I sent her this link.

Anyway, here we are, back at the grindstone, earning a living and whatnot. Tonight it's band practice again and Rose Thorn's turn to cook. Oh please, let it not be bolognaise related!

Enjoy this beautiful Monday, people!

NGDG: "Here's a failsafe way to extend your weekend by at least half an hour: buy your beer on Thursday."

Spread The Love. Dunk. Dunk. Dunk.

...AND THIS LITTLE PIGGY....

Can't remember where this pic is from. Probably Occupy Bacon or something.

I am a self confessed, self absorbed narcissistic arsehole at the best of times. Anyone who knows me will vouch for this. I have worked very hard at it and am excessively proud of the results. But some of these absolute wanktards on Faeceboobs really take the cake. Everyone wants to make out as if they're harder, faster, smoother or more of a dickhead - with harsher opinions than the next one.

These sentiments I feel are best summed up by Messrs Blom, Swift and James
"Fuck, you. Fuck you, you fuck."
"Why can't we be friends? Why can't we be friends?"

This has nothing to do with anything.

Except maybe to introduce you to this. This is the greatest local music video you are likely to see. For a long time. Or ever. Click on THECOOLESTVIDEOYOU'LLSEETODAY for lots of fun sexy times.

It's Friday. It's raining. Again. My life, however, is not at an end. It's time to get your irreverence on and wear it like pants on your head. What are you lot getting up to this weekend? I know what I'm doing... being the social butterfly -between all sorts of secret sauce and pretending to be a gangster from 80 years ago. Personally I think the last one is a totally kak idea. From what I can remember from Bugsy Malone, it's going to be particularly uncomfortable standing around in a bar re-enacting prohibition...

At least we'll have something to celebrate. With any luck the English rugger team will all get simultaneous ankle injuries or food poisoning. They have a distinct advantage over us. See my comments on the weather above. Also, playing against a provincial team is less challenging. Except for the front row, who all happen to be from their own franchise as well. Can you imagine readying yourself to scrum down against the Beast? (Not a reference to my own foreplay.) I'd kak myself. (Again, not a reference to my foreplay.) It must be like looking at impending doom head on with someone's forearm reaching under your crotch. (Jees, there rugby guys really know how to have fun...)

All this grabbing each other around the waist at high speed, free style grappling each other in a little heap, lifting each other around the thighs to catch balls, running after one another, pushing up against the other men from the back with a grunting team effort, and something very suggestively referred to as the "sin bin"... it's no wonder the Blue Bulls opted for their away strip colours.

Luckily the average plastic scrotum Toyota Hilux accessory owning rugby fan will probably never have the intellectual capacity to find out where I live.

Anyway, it's Friday. Enjoy the Euro Football starting tonight. I won't. Fuck SABC and ETV. Spend a gazillion of my tax dollars on securing fucking away games that Bafana Bafana are going to lose anyway, but can't buy a few European Championship matches. Wankers.

And a HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Commander Conker! You'll remember him. He tried to kill me on several occasions. Click the link if you like stories of excruciating torture and near death experiences...

NGDG: "When I was a kid I had a compilation CD of driving rock, with Golden Earring, Spin Doctors, Toto and the like. It's time I compiled a new one, starting with Suicide Silence's 'Bludgeoned To Death'. "

Spread The Love. It Isn't Always On Time. Thanks Neal...

THIRSTY THURSDAY

I have been waiting soooo long to use that picture! Finally! Good afternoon from a rather miserable Mother City. Purely for the small contingent of literates Norff of the Vaal, the weather in Cape Town is crap today.

So tonight is once again my turn to cook for the masses. Dinner Club. And not just any Dinner Club, my dear! My Birthday Dinner Club! Having invited more people than usual, I have had to double ingredients. This means buying twice as much in the grocery store AND the bottle store. I have been slaving over a luke warm stove for 2 evenings in a row, miraculously managing to burn the bottom of the dish twice. There are now two pots in my unfinished sink awaiting some strong words and even stronger elbow grease...

Then all the extra people couldn't make it. Eish! Good thing too! Having scorched together half of the food to the bottom of a variety of kitchenware, there may just be enough left for the usual crowd. Let's hope...

And speaking of dinners, last night I was hosted by the Old School Friend and family. It truly is amazing how you can continue as if it was yesterday that you last chatted around a table when the opposite is true. Ah, good times. Can't wait to test my theory at our upcoming jdhtyhijns-th school reunion.

I plan on informing everyone that I'm unemployed and live with my parents. And if they press me for the truth, assuming I'm joking to deflect attention from my decidedly mediocre achievements, I'm going to tell them I'm the treasurer of the local chapter of the Satanic Cult that goes around to middle schools and hands out Slipknot and Marilyn Manson cds. Or even worse, I'll tell them I am in local government.

Anyone thirsty yet?

One advantage to the rain not letting up - I don't have to rinse the garden ingredients I will be using later. I think a cursory inspection for caterpillars should suffice. Oooh, and some delightfully miserable music - you know - to lift the spirits. Nothing worse that cheerful music at the best of times, but this weather calls for some nice, dreary, contemplative dirges. Can't wait. Just need to get home first. Too lazy to change the Judas Priest in the car.

So. On the menu tonight:

• A starter of some Mediterranean extraction.
• A main course comprised mainly of burnt bits. Mmmmm, yummy carcinogens.
• Some My Dying Bride.
• Then some Katatonia.
• Good red wine.
• Shit talking of the highest order.

Can't wait.

NGDG: "Why do married people have date nights? I thought the point of marriage was to avoid evermore the awkwardness of sitting across from someone who's tricked you into paying for their dinner and may or may not order prawns."

Spread The Love. And The Warm Glowing Warming Glow.

SPICY SPORT

When are football fans and administrators ever going to learn? Demanding better performances from their teams and coaches alone won't help your franchise's cause. And firing coach upon coach upon coach will not miraculously improve the quality of the players in your team. There is usually only one trophy per competition - and if you go through the arithmetic very carefully you will find that this results in only one team being victorious. Every other team then looks to fire their manager for under performing. Lunacy! Take Bafana Bafana for instance. Headline news! Pitso Mosimane axed for a run of 7 games without a win. His players are shit. If anything, he should be raked over the coals for questionable team selection. Now all that's going to happen is the new caretaker coach, Steve Khompela, is going be stuck with the burden of whipping a bunch of lazy, B grade, prima donnas into shape in a matter of days before our next qualifier. If he pulls it off, he'll be hailed as a miracle worker. But he'll get the boot soon enough.

You could stick Di Matteo in charge of this lot - a man who took a floundering Chelsea (admittedly brimming with international superstars, but out of form) to European Champions League success, or Alex Ferguson - the most successful top flight manager in the history of the beautiful game - and they'd still suck. It's like wondering why our darts team didn't do well at the inflatable Olympics! There is no quick fix. Alex Ferguson was one game away from being fired in his first year at Old Trafford. One game! The club decided to stick with him and the last 25 years have been one long procession to lift silverware. Perhaps other clubs could learn a thing or 2 from this approach.

How many times have administrators tinkered with coaching staff after massive success? Jake White? Pieter De Villiers? Pep Guardiolla? Who'd be a coach? It must be the only thing left to do after a professional career in sport if you don't speak well enough to become a bad commentator. At least in South Africa. Where commentating is reserved for sport "stars" no one ever heard of because they only played in B sides. Except Peter Kirsten, who is an actual bone fide great of cricket, but an absolute arse behind a mic. Can you tell I don't have DSTV?

And.Then.There's.The.Anthem. Whilst I personally don't know the full democratic version, it's a disgrace to have to hear of yet another screw up when it comes to what so many hold dear. I think it's a crap anthem, but I don't represent the views of 50 million people. In much the same way that I disagree with most on other forms of music as well. I'm not unpatriotic - in the least - but I'd have thought ripping off a generic African song that wasn't even written here was a bit lame. That all aside, can our beloved sports administrators not stop their manager firing or their political infighting long enough to commission someone to sing our anthem properly. Or even make sure the idiot operating the PA system has the correct copy? I don't like the song and I was embarrassed for a nation when that Rastafarian dude proved to be the only person alive with a worse singing voice than me. Then ol' Ard - bless his cotton socks - made a genuine honest zorch up on live national telly. Cringe. Shame, I actually feel sorry for the bloke. It's not the first time, and certainly won't be the last, that someone forgets lyrics to a song during a performance. And then you got the super uncomfortable sideways glances by our poor hockey girls yesterday as the wrong version was sent blaring through the speakers. Can you imagine The Queen's face if they accidentally powered up the Sex Pistols version during her Jubilee? Heads, my dear readers, would have rolled.

And that's your sports wrap for today. I have to mention the circus that is the IPL, the effect it's having on cricket and the shame that is the South African Cricket Board for shunning tradition by not having a Boxing Day Test this year. Now we've incorporated the "Spicy" in the "Sport". You didn't think I was going to write about Mel C, did you?

NGDG: "Fitness aside, running a half marathon when I was as little as ten pounds heavier was way harder, carrying that weight. To paraphrase Withnail 'landing a plum role for top Italian director. 2 pounds 10 a tit, and a fiver for his arse.' "

Spread The Love. Don't Kill Or Replace Heyneke Meyer. Just Yet.

COME OUT AND PLAY

Phillip wins today's pic prize. 

Yes, folks. Today, on this gloomy day, we are going to discuss "cougars". And the phenomenon known as "boy toys". I feel that, much like your winter tummy, some definition is required here.

Cougar - an older woman, out on the prowl for a younger man to service her.
Boy Toy - a younger man too fucking lazy to learn the subtle art of schmoozing chicks his own age or younger, getting piss drunk and waking up in a flat in Camps Bay with regrets the next morning.

The term "cougar" is used to describe tanned, fake divorcees that think their vast sexual prowess (a level of experience eclipsed only by their desperation to get laid) is attractive to men that fall into an age group that would see them being on the same sports teams as these predators' sons. They're usually found in small gaggles (or "support groups") sipping expensive cocktails through straws and wearing less than sensible shoes. Their leathery skins are testament to lives lived in the lap of luxury - until the bread winner was either bled dry, or traded her lazy arse in for a newer model. This usually results in the application of too much make up and too little clothing. These "visions" (or apparitions, as I like to call them) then stalk their hapless prey at bars all up and down the West Coasts of every civilised country in the World. The "toy boys" in question have no idea what's about to happen to them. Face it, most of the time they just have no idea. About anything. I refuse to believe that any individual that allows themselves to be dressed by Markhams, pop up collar and all, who spends a small mortgage on drinks in a place that plays shit music, who only owns the Best Of Johnny Clegg and Prime Circle's Greatest Hits (along with that Toto cd his china burned for him for the car) has any value to add to the human race whatsoever. Besides light comic relief. And keeping cougars the fuck away from me, were I ever stupid enough to find myself in one of these unfortunate establishments...

Can you picture the scenario? Boy toy engages in hysterical recount of some chick he pomped - to the delighted amusement and constant high fives of his assembled cast of loafer wearing buddies, drinking Heineken or Castle Light and making inappropriate comments about the one genuinely good looking girl in the place, just loud enough for her to hear. Meanwhile, skulking at the end of the bar, Janine and her mates sit and ogle the cute butts of their intended victims, all the time making mocking comparisons to their ex husbands and indulging in the tried and trusted "come hither" laughter that's as fake as their tans and also audible enough to interest the idiot boys.

What happens next? Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps a pair of eyes meeting across the room or an openly suggestive glance that says "Ladies loo or Gents?" Anyway, some time in the proceeding I bet there's enough alcohol involved and Janine is being railed with her diamante anklet waving about in the air like the fist of a rallying COSATU supporter.

The next morning - oh I don't know, let's call him CLINT - wakes up to find the face of his supposed conquest smeared on the pillow next to him and Medusa lying there in her place. He makes his excuses or escape and goes out that night with his chinas with a fantastic tale of this, like, awesome chick he pomped. How does he do it!

Janine calls her ex husband and asks for money. She'll need several hours of intensive work before she can go out tonight.

I prefer the BOY TOYS pictured above. I'm a real boy.

NGDG: "Jaws Of Life is a silly name. I propose Hydraulic Meat Extraction Scissors."

Spread The Love. Age Appropriately.

GETTING BETTER WITH AGE...

Geminis. Sometimes a "gem" apparently.

...happens to other people. Although I am taking great delight in aging ungracefully. Like a good red wine, I make awful stains on the carpet!

Yes folks, it was my kjdfhdfin-th birthday on Saturday and it was a blast! Well, the entire month of June so far and for the foreseeable future. Friday I did the nice mature thing and invited the family over for a potjie, after hiding away as much building rubble and dirty clothes as possible. The results were nothing short of spectacular, as you expect, with me channelling Martha Stewart, Andries Krogman AND Nathaniel to produce a potjie that rivalled my winning submission at Tarty Farty Tequila Party's last birthday. This was accompanied by enough red wine to make the chore of cleaning the house and hiding shit away all over again suitably painful on Saturday morning.

But not before getting spoiled rotten by The Hot Girlfriend, who took the opportunity to impress and did so with great aplomb and flair. I got coffee and pressies in bed. I got breakfast made for me. I was genuinely pleasantly surprised by the amazing array of cds she managed to find from my wish list. (I'm notoriously difficult. To shop for. And in general. I've been told. Lots.) AND a scoopy-flipper-over-thingy that is in the shape of a guitar.

Then off to pick up DrHellCuz in the valley and start our day of celebration and adventure. We went booze shopping. We went to lunch at Bacinis, mainly because it is very close to the cable car station, but also because of the damn fine pizza. We cashed in on our status as birthday boys and took a trip on the cable car for free. The top of the mountain, as well as the view, was breathtaking. By that time it had cleared up on the City Bowl side, but was still completely under cloud cover from the 12 Apostles right the way around to Muizenberg. We were quite a bit higher than the clouds, so it was very Walt Disney. For a bunch of metal heads, we were surprisingly taken by it all. But then I am a vociferous supporter of the Mother City and all her beautiful sights...

Anyway, fade to frantically trying to get dinner made before guests arrived. Scoffing down mighty mouthfuls of home made chicken burgers between letting people in and accepting their cheerful birthday wishes went on for quite a while. Then I distinctly remember The Dean administering the liquid cocaines. Then I distinctly remember something about a power failure, at which point, despite the obvious cause being the massive Municipal truck - with orange lights flashing - doing some emergency fixing on the power lines on my road, I insisted on going to buy more prepaid electricity. All to no avail.

After that I distinctly remember very little.

Sunday was a write off, as was expected. We had breakfast at the Tequila Haus & Small Person Emporium, but I had to make it. After saying a fond farewell to DrHellCuz, we went home to get some rest. An afternoon nap and some dinner later I felt strong enough to 'hair-o-the-dog' and the rest of the evening explains today's brand new hangover. Sucker for punishment? Or awesome beyond measure? Or desperately holding on to last vestige of my misspent youth...

Anyway, a great weekend by all accounts. Thanks to those that chose to share it with me. Let's do the same again next year!

And in other news. Go and pick up a copy of the latest Rolling Stone SA. Terminatryx is featured in this issue TWICE! Yoh!

NGDG: "When driving in Sandton gridlock I like to inch up really close to the very expensive cars to annoy their drivers with their own proximity sensors."

Spread The Love. I'm Asking Nicely.