LOTS OF ARSE.

There are lots of arse in the words ANOTHER IRREVERENT FRIDAY. You see, I watched Team America yesterday for the first time and was well impressed by the ability of Trey Parker to pull off the vocal performance of Kim Jung Ill without missing ONE opportunity to replace an R with an L. Ok, I was impressed with the entire movie. Being a big fan of Buck Rogers, Southpark, anything irreverent and anything even vaguely anti-American. The garish, bullying part at any rate.

So here we are on this perfectly shitty Friday afternoon and spirits are high my friends! In a few short hours the feet will be up, the beer will be flowing and the Hot Girlfriend will be next to me. Whoohoo! Then it's time to hit the town tonight. Hope I remember to take along the damned earplugs - I normally forget them. Yes, I'm an old geezer, we all know that...
Then tomorrow we brave even worse conditions for a birthday bash at Hooters in Kalk Bay. The birthday girl insists it's merely a coincidental name choice for part of the Brass Bell, but I think it's far more sordid.

But alas folks, there's sad news as well. I have been forced to forego the adventure of a lifetime due to work and short notice. The intrepid Tarty Farty Tequila Party circus is hitching its wagons and going off on a 3 day camping/4x4/braaing/awesome adventure. I was invited. I cannot go. I am going to die of missalitis. I'm going to sound like Esme Everard. I'm probably going to mope the whole of Sunday to Wednesday. So don't be surprised if I am in a gloriously gloomy mood next week. Someone get me some Eeyore pyjamas!

Anyway, let's rather celebrate the good things in life. At least it's Friday and we don't have any of work's encumbrances to deal with. So sit back, smile, light 'em if you got 'em and take a nice soothing listen to my song choice for the weekend. For YOU. For EVERYONE. I love you guys...  Enjoy this little ditty.

Ok, see you all anon.

NGDG: Whoever stole my copy of Ozzy's No More Tears will die a horrible death. Unless it was S***** in Canada. They fact that your wife publishes stories of your impotence on her blog is satisfaction enough.

Spread The Love. Shut Up And Swallow.

REFUSE! RESIST! REPHRASE! RETWEET!

Pretty apt summation of the horrific degeneration of EVERYTHING. Morals (problems there). Sexual Permissiveness (little less of a problem). Continued animal abuse (huge problem). And people actually believing anything a politician tells them without thinking for themselves (doom for the planet). The real clincher is however, spelling. You know when you watch the news out of morbid curiosity whilst you're waiting for the Sports and Weather... They've always got these messages or comments scrolling at the bottom of the screen. Usually in all of sms brevity's unspeakable splendour. Well yesterday this little gem popped up from a well wisher. "Paralimbians." PARA-LIMB-IANS! Was that done on purpose? Come on!

All this talk of the evolution (wreckage) of the planet reminds me of a discussion I had last night. I was politely reminded of my age. I still burn cds full of mp3s for my car sound system. Actual tangible discs are apparently SO last decade. I kind of agree, but my car radio doesn't have the facility to read USB or beam downloads like the Starship Enterprise quite yet. And all this from a person who just last week purchased a double vinyl LP! Hahahaha! He does have a point though. Mass storage has become a reality and a rather cheap one at that. Now all I have to do - as an aging audiophile - is start the heart wrenching process of retiring my vast collection of hi-fi components that have mysteriously multiplied over the years. Whilst the advanced-function tape decks look pretty, they're just taking up space. Don't get me started on the DAT machine...

Anyway, it's a beautiful day and I think I'll enjoy it by going home, cracking open a cold beer and getting involved in a spot of gardening. Since the garden is so small, this is probably the best way to describe it. That, and I have to go and fetch my car from the auto electrician who, bless his heart, has been reasonable enough in his pricing not to make me regret not having a newer little Korean coke can. I am going to drive the FUCK out of my car this afternoon. Mainly because I have been borrowing the sibling's far more sedate ride and feel like Miss Daisy.

What are you getting up to this weekend? I strongly suggest that you poke your head into ROAR tomorrow night if you're of the slightly more metal persuasion. One of South Africa's legendary drummers has a new band, Hellucifix, and it's their debut show, supporting The Marching Dead and Sexodus, a thrashing tribute band of some acclaim. There were a million people "living the lifestyle" and "feeling the brotherhood" and "being metal" and "fighting the righteous fight" and "upholding the scene" at Metal4Africa's Winterfest. Let's show each other that local support isn't necessarily only a biannual event...
Go to The Thrash Rises for more details.

And see you at the bar...

NGDG: A desk I can see from my cubicle is being prepared for a new staff member. I've been told she's "quite pretty" and I'm not "to freak her out". What if she freaks me out? No one cares about MY feelings."

Spread The Love. Woooooaaaaahhhhhh! Freak Out!

A NOTEWORTHY NOTE OF NOTE.

It really is tough trying the road less travelled sometimes. Imagine you had the choice as a lightie of pursuing Accounting or something equally banal. Instead you choose something like the music industry or even worse, self employment. It is a universal truth that the road less travelled can yield greater satisfaction and greater rewards, but the risks are certainly also more.

However, with the advent of the internet, computers and a global belief system that "you can do anything you set your mind to" and a general feeling of "it's not fair - I also want" it has made the choice to be different or take risks far too easy to make. Let's focus for a minute on the average musician. Back in the day you had to be an exceptional, accomplished, talented writer or artist to crack it in a very demanding industry. Now all you need is enough money for a home pc and some jorts. Or so most people would like to believe. This is of course one of the biggest fallacies for which mankind has been responsible. Right up there with "men prefer women who don't put out" and "modern banking working for you". You see, whilst I am not exceptional, accomplished or talented, I am happy to admit this and go about assaulting your auditory senses on my own terms and not expecting any form of remuneration. This is unfortunately not the case with most other so-called musicians. They like whinging. And not in the good Nick Holmes / Aaron Stainthorpe way either. They are permanently informing their 236 facebook followers (some of whom are simply too lazy to "unlike" them after the free sample turned out to be dross) of their woeful and under appreciated circumstances. They also love exhorting the paying punters to greater heights of participation at live shows - often berating their fans for the lack of support instead of removing the online-advertising-fuck-up log from their own eyes.

I have no gripe with artists or musicians who like it in the underground, but don't use it as a refuge for your ineptitude. Don't claim to be something you're not and then complain and claim to be misunderstood and unique. Morrissey is misunderstood and unique and he's sold millions of albums. Ian Curtis was misunderstood and unique. He has had a lasting impact on modern music, even 30 or so years after his death.

The result is a fiasco of shitstorm proportions that has now evolved into a self sustaining version of the industry. The more you're willing to pander to the ever more eclectic tastes of the consumer, the more chance you have of being noticed. People love train wrecks. Lady Gaga, Nicky "WTF" Minaj, the list goes on. At least Siouxsie had some style and what she did wasn't a compromise.

This has also affected the level of quality accepted by the brainwashed masses. Turn on any radio station that panders to hit driven demand and prepare to regurgitate your breakfast. It's ludicrous.

So here is my plea. Go and check out some of the local musicians in your area trying break through by using the completely out-of-the-box method of actually being good performers, writing quality material and wearing something that doesn't look like a Transformer Outfit or an Office Braai. To the musicians out there: to thine own self be true. And by that I mean, be objective and honest with yourself about your work. If it's good enough, make it better. If it isn't please for fuck's sake do not subject us to it. Do not expect to live the Motley Crue lifestyle. Those days are over and you're probably not good enough to sell enough records or concert tickets. If you sincerely believe, upon honest introspection, that you are one of the few genuinely gifted musicians out there, please, please, PLEASE do not give up! To deny us your talent is tantamount to stealing from us. The real appreciators will always be there.

Educate the guy next to you.
Find something worthwhile.
Be passionate, but patient.

Vote with your feet - online or at a live venue.

NGDG: "You know, Charles. If you work in a bar, you must know your drinks. If I ask you for one thing and you tell me 'no, we have something else', you insult me." I hear ad nauseum. "He's not insulting you, he's making a suggestion, you cantankerous old fart." I snap. "This does not concern you. Who are you?" Who is The Neal? "Someone who doesn't have to put up with your patronising pontification." Chastened. Silenced. Boom!

Spread The Love. It SHOULD Tear You Apart.

A DOUBLE DOSE OF DUCKFACE!

Yea verily. And shit. Look! It's a second post for the day!

Earlier I waxed lyrical (and neatly creamed my pants) about my dining experience over the weekend. Had to be done. Also, I was far too busy yesterday to commit any time to you, my faithful and obviously very erudite readers.

But fear not! Here is your second dose of drivel for the day. Duckfaces and all! Thank goodness lack of content isn't lethal. Otherwise the music industry would be out on its arse. And I'd have died from acute "kakpraat" a long time ago, leaving you bereft of my many faults and flaws. Small mercies, I suppose.

Anyway. Today we can have a quick look at current affairs. Your favourite and mine - and the unflagging champion of the disenfranchised - the ANC Yoof Leeg are at it again. Perennially undermining any progressive thinking or proactive governing, this collection of chair lickers seems to have finally cracked it! Their new initiative to house the po', the broke and the terminally handy voting fodder is pure unadulterated genius.

*Note how I can use words like under"mining" and un"adulter"ated without so much as a smirk...

Anyway, putting the "absolute tit" back into buffoonery and skullthuggery, these monuments of modern intellect have strongly suggested, instead of the admittedly slow RDP houses currently being built, that their brethren be relocated to posher digs. They have pretty much demanded 4 - 5 bedroom houses - Rondebosch Common being earmarked in their develop"mental" model. Also, they are seriously aghast that their poorer cadres (read "I'm too lazy or stupid to have gotten into tenderpreneurship") cannot simply be redeployed into swanky residences in Constantia or Rondebosch. They actually included this in their memorandum. The one they failed to hand to Herr Zille yesterday because she wouldn't come out and play. I don't blame her. If someone called me a mongrel whore I'd also tell them to fuck themselves. Only problem is that's exactly the problem. Procreation is being confused - to every one's detriment - with proactive job creation. I blame the degeneration of the English language personally...

Ah politics! My favourite subject. If only...

Oh yes, and there's another picture of our beloved Prez with his Lady Fixer out! Can't wait to see the furore and outrage again.

And, as promised earlier, let's hear it for Mr Neal Goldwyer!
NGDG: The Time-Traveller's Wife. Romantic or a bit pedo? Let's give it another 20 minutes. Considering the only other options are dancing, football and Zuma, I'd give it hours.

Spread The Love. It's A Many Splendoured Thing.

FIT FOR A KING.

Not aKing, obviously. They should take their middle of the road Musica fodder elsewhere.

No, ladies and genteel persons, I am referring to the heavenly experience of Saturday night. The cuisine was straight from Heaven's own kitchen and the culture a slice of paradise that can only be found in the Stellenbosch Winelands.

For the sake of the readers outside of my own little sardonic circle, today she will be known as The Journo. A very good friend of mine, we travel around together a lot causing spontaneous rapture wherever we go and generally have the best time of anyone in the room. She invited me along as her "plus one" as she was set to review the Eastern Cuisine themed evening at the famous Simonsig Wine Estate restaurant, Cuvee. Well, to say the decor is a magical mixture of eclectic, modern minimalism, Top Billing Bling, traditional and antique, would probably verge on understatement. The entrance hall is a very typical wine tasting and palate whetting collection of wines and classic arch design (both of which I love). Then you walk into the swanky restaurant and turn into a chameleon. NOT in the sense of blending in as a defence mechanism, but because your eyes are forced to independently swivel to take in all the wondrous sights at once. Bleakly austere concrete roofing gives way to audaciously ornate chandeliers, hand accessorized to create ceiling centre-pieces that would make Jeannie D dither. Scattered around the space is a variety of old and authentic wooden furniture, startlingly juxtaposed to the garish steel lamps and mega-modern fittings.

There was even live music, a subtle Eastern fusion of percussion and traditional melodies that was the perfect fit for the evening and created a really authentic ambiance. And there was bubbly. I have long warbled on about the virtues of the bubbly from a rival wine estate in Constantia, but this stuff was just as other worldly. And interestingly, MCC was apparently pioneered on this very farm!

The menu was a set affair, a feast of Eastern delights to suit a themed evening. For starters, or "Amuse Bouche", we were served Pho (a classic Vietnamese noodle soup). I'm not a big fan of soup, but this was delicious. The highlight of the dish was the plate. It looked like a great big upside down porcelain sun hat. Everything on the night was paired with a wine meant to adequately compliment the dish. The white wine they decide to serve with the starter was - by all accounts, awesome - but met with no small amount of trepidation. The last time I drank white wine I ended up crawling into bed with my girlfriend's girlfriend, a famous pop singer at the time - it didn't end well...

The starter was followed by a starter. Trying not to expose my lack of class (I wore a button shirt AND brushed my hair...) I decided to let it go and rather try and find the answer on the menu. At first I was terrified that the flimsy strips of fish on the plate in front of me were the main course and that they had somehow contrived to mess up my order, but The Journo quickly explained it all to me. This course was the main starter!

It was something called Tataki of Seared Tuna with Avo, Yuzu Mayo and Ponzy dressing. I tucked in. I had what can only be described, and was, as a Meg Ryan moment. You know, the one where she fakes an orgasm at the table sitting opposite Wilson's buddy. Except I wasn't faking this foodgasm! And believe me when I tell you I was trying my damnedest to keep it together. For the sake of all the other patrons. Angels descended from heaven and broke into celestial chorus. I felt light headed and had a sudden craving for a cigarette. It was literally the most sublime taste experience of my life. I actually thought the chandeliers were shaking in some sort of apocalyptic sympathy, but it turns out it was just my eye twitching in post coital bliss...

Then the mains came. Teriyake Siew Yuk (turns out, not so yuk) with pan juice (interesting...) translates to Roasted Pork Belly. Paired with yet another white wine, a Chardonnay, I wasn't sure if I was quite ready for this. I frantically organised a red to help my nerves and supply me with the required fortitude. Let's just say that the Frans Malan 2008 from Simonsig is so good that I ended up buying a bottle to take home and proudly display in my burgeoning collection. The pork belly was equally exquisite, rendering me only slightly less capable of speech than the starter did. Muffled yelps of delight escaped between mouthfuls as I dined. In a place far, far from hell.

I'm not a dessert person. In fact, I never eat dessert. As a rule. I have the complete opposite of a sweet tooth and when I do make the ill advised decision to indulge in some (like the time I tried the Chef Buddy's creme brule because he made it especially for me, I was ill for hours) it usually ends in tears and copious amounts of whiskey. But given the ecclesiastic ecstasy inspired by the dishes leading up to this one I thought "what the heck". Potato sized balls of chocolate (satandagi - yes SatanDagi!) surrounded a lonely looking dollop of coconut sorbet and represented probably the biggest culinary challenge of my life, unless you count the time I attempted to make my first white sauce. Manfully, and gratefully armed with the signature estate Port, I dug in. My face immediately contorted to resemble that of Homer Simpson when he ate the world's sourest sourball. That's not to say that it wasn't wonderful. My endorsement stems from the fact that if I don't like a dessert, it MUST be heavenly.

Anyway, the meal was rounded off by a leisurely coffee, an even more leisurely stroll around the gardens and some snap shots for the magazine for which the review was being written...

...but not before the undoubted highlight of the evening!

The table next to us was apparently a mass gathering to honour someone celebrating their birthday and was a collection of family members of all shapes and sizes, the most entertaining of which was an impressively coiffed dame who kept on interfering with the couple adjacent to us.
Anyway, one of the sons, no doubt a treasure to his very culturally aware kin, was persuaded to stand and deliver. It started off like any other rather embarrassing family request, a young man approaching puberty and the corresponding bungee experience in the nethers got up and gave us a song. The restaurant fell into a reverential hush and politely applauded at the end. This was a mistake. The family, goaded on by the appreciation of the gathered masses, howled for more. What followed was a scene from War Of The Worlds. Cue mass panicked exodus as the central figure - curiously also short, slender and funny looking - shrieked out a rendition of what I can only guess was called "Apie".

 I hope The Journo remembers to add how awesome the service was. I hope The Journo includes in her review the effortless elegance of the entire evening. I trust The Journo will avoid the "Apie" Apocalypse.

Anyway, thanks to my great friend for a truly incredible experience and to the chef and staff of Cuvee, you'll see me again. Just let me save up for a while.

Neal Goldwyer will make his daily contribution later today...
Spread The Love. I Think Meg Ryan Said It Best...

LOVE'S FINAL EMBRACE!

As in "DEATH!" Ever heard of a little band called SLAYER?

Yes, DEATH, folks! In the cold, unforgiving grip of death... That's where I've been. Although it could be argued that I - like many other men - am a bit of a miserable baby when I'm sick. So I've been off work for some time and then forced to play catch up upon my return. Still feeling a bit the worse for wear, but the show must go on. That is my official response to the 3 people that made comment about my recent lack of blog posts. Bless!

Anyway, who's in the mood for a little catch up? Let's see. It all started in a far off kingdom a long, long time ago. Yes, dear reader, I was at Grand West Arena for One Night In Cape Town, the local leg of the famed Oppikoppi. I was there to interview the honourable Shaun Morgan nee Welgemoed from Seether and Matt Tuck from Bullet For My Valentine. Didn't even bother checking out any of the other bands, mainly due to catching up with a very old friend of mine and partly because of the inevitable game of hurry-up-and-wait, and being informed that the sound was shit. Eventually after standing around like a doos for ever, we were informed that her ladyship Miss Shaun wasn't entertaining any callers that evening. Excuses ranged from having a hangover to something about a daughter or a chick - all perfectly plausible and acceptable, except when you're wasting my time you piece of shit unprofessional cock sucker! I get to say that because I don't have a media to whom I am required to be a suck up. He does. Doos. Not only did he cancel all his interviews for the night, but his performance was as lacklustre as a wet fart. Well done! Way to give back to the very people whose support gave you your big break in the first place.

To be honest I wasn't expecting much form Bullet For My Valentine, in the interview or the performance, especially after having put myself through the delightful experience of some early YouTube clips, but I was greatly and very pleasantly surprised. Matt Tuck is an awesome dude, completely at ease, without any pretence, very professional and extremely polite and down to earth. He gave a great interview and an even better performance. I was expecting the dreaded metal-core dross I'd seen on the internet. Instead we were treated to a wonderfully composed and focused set of decidedly more "metal" than I'd been fearing. At times they were so "traditional" there were even tones reminiscent of pre-Painkiller Priest, believe it or not. I will be the first to admit that they most definitely proved me wrong in my assumptions and I doff my cap to you lads - great show. Still not going to purchase any of their cds, lest my buddies kill me dead...

Then I fell victim to the Lurgy From Hell, which just didn't want to go away, no matter how many movies I watched or how many books I read. Eventually a trip to the doc supplied me with a ton of antibiotics and I'm glad to announce an almost full recovery.

In that time, I managed very little, except to celebrate on as many occasions as possible the Hot Girlfriend's birthday. And since I didn't say so on the day, Happy Birthday Love! Thanks for putting up with a crotchety old geezer.

In other news: recordings are going well on all fronts, a new kitchen cupboard has miraculously manifested itself, my car is buggered, Th' Damned Crows have released their much anticipated first single, South African sport is apparently well (for now), Oscar Pistorius can't make up his mind if he's disabled or not, absolutely fuckall has changed on the world wide web and LordDoom is sitting in a corner dribbling over his new Wildernessking swag.

I will keep my opinions on the miner shootings and subsequent political vulture fest to myself.

And as always, we end off with some timeless truth from the honourable Mr Goldwyer...
NGDG: I want to learn an essential skill like millinery or rhinoplasty so that, if Mars id colonised in our lifetime, I can be on the skilled immigrant's register.

Spread The Love. Not The Flu.

G'DAY, SPORTS FANS!

Indeed, day it is. Not too sure about how good it's going to turn out, what with the ANC Yoof Leeg planning on overturning 5 million years of atrocities against their card-carrying toilet breakers by overturning a few dozen municipal rubbish bins. Or perhaps it's too cold today for them to don the beret of the oppressed and destabilise the only provincial government in the country that is making any sort of headway in taking care of its people - incidentally the only one not ANC ruled...

But enough of that, I would like to talk sport today. Seeing as everyone on the planet has suddenly become an expert in whichever sport their athletes are excelling at in the Olympic games, at any rate. South Africans have once again all become aquatics aficionados - and those that haven't, are queuing up at their nearest canoe shop, ready to tackle Harties like there's no tomorrow.

I hope we win something in the Greco-Roman wrestling - that would make for interesting weekend activities in Table View...
"Honey, I'm just off to the Biscuit Mall with my girlfriends to buy some veggies that have grown in pooh, or so they claim on the price tag!"
"That's ok dollface, me 'n' Gerrie are gonna clean out the garage and grapple each other in our tidy whiteys! Have fun! Don't ding the Tuscan!"

And on to football, where the real drama lives. We're in transfer season, a time when I bemoan my fate as an ardent supporter - every year. Every year we're forced to watch as the carnival unfolds. Tabloids have a field day with speculations on who's in and who's out - some so outlandish that they wouldn't be out of place as part of a Bold & Beautiful plot - or lack thereof. But I'd like to address the bilious actions of Liverpool today. This illustrious and successful bastion of English Football, supported the world over by legions of rabid fans and in their own back yard by toothless hubcap thieves, have really gone and disgraced themselves even further after last season's Luis Suarez racism debacle. Not only did they defend his racist slurs at the time, but they played a nice game of "head in the sand" when he once again snubbed Patrice Evra. And now they've gone and extended his deal for a further four years. They must be swelling with pride, having a man found guilty of racism and prejudice leading their line. Patrice Evra is no saint either, let it be said, the miserable bastard that he is, but at least he wasn't fined tens of thousands of pounds and banned for 8 weeks. I wonder what John Barnes thought of the whole thing...

Alas, these things happen in life. Personally, I'd prefer it if the actual sport took centre stage. I really don't care what your personal beliefs are as long as you keep them off the field. But if you're earning that much money and are under such permanent public scrutiny, then you owe it to the people to maintain some level of decorum. Otherwise you end up with an entire generation of yobs and chavs who display no respect or any prospects of contributing to society. Oh wait, hang on...

They probably said the same thing about the punk movement in the late seventies, before it was appropriated by the mass market, but at least they dressed well...

So good luck Castor Semenya. Please let the media focus on her achievements and not on the contents of her running attire. I think we can all agree that at least our sports bosses have done a commendable job of keeping her away from the media feeding frenzy. And that javelin chick, not that I know know anything about javelin other than 'do not plug your own foot', good luck!

Also to the Proteas, please, please, please, please spoil what could quite possibly be Kevin Pietersen's last test for England. Please!

NGDG: For someone who doesn't care about impressing anybody, it's an incredible irony that I don't wear tracksuit pants every day.

Spread The Love. Stocks Are Limiting.

PUSSY RIOT

Today is the judgement on the Russian band Pussy Riot. I may not get as many people taking notice of me as Gareth Cliff, but this is worth noting...

So I just came back from the Gardens Centre. Most Capetonians would agree that this small, community-based shopping emporium is one of the last to maintain some vestige of exclusivity, some strand of respectability, even though it has a Musica. It's smack in the middle of a residential area usually reserved for the well-off elderly and the well-to-do student sect. Unfortunately some hippies as well, but what can you do...
Anyway, you're more likely to find Mercedes than Unos in the parking lot, even if they let in the occasion clapped up Volla. And it's this very oversight that I was exposed to when I was there. Now I don't know if it was the sheer frustration of having to look through an unfamiliar section of a store in search of something I couldn't find, or if it was the sound of the rain outside, but I found myself reluctantly seeking to use the centre's facilities. Not being too fond of public restrooms at the best of times, I rather sheepishly entered what I assumed would at least be a nice clean, upper class space, if not a pristine monument in marble. What I found was a kick in the balls for every security guard everywhere...

...Droves of homeless people doing there ablutions. Some with their worldly possessions on black plastic bags and ALL rather the worse for wear. Which got me thinking. Your average patron who comes to a centre like this - looking to spend some money in a nice classy environment, Musica notwithstanding - would go into shock! But the bergies were at least polite - almost to a fault - as if they knew they weren't exactly welcome. I finally came to the conclusion that they were at least trying to improve their immediate situation, which showed they take some pride in themselves and is commendable. Also, I realised that human fecal matter is probably better in the designated sewage system (no matter by which conduit) rather than on the pavement outside the entrance to the centre.

And speaking of human fecal matter, I am currently once again in the office with good ol' 5FM on. I have no idea what's playing. It seems all the bands these days should be called "Working On My Tits". And this just after I managed to fix the cd player in my car, saving me from an afternoon commute with Fresh and his band of idiots. The worst, however, was the so-called song I heard this morning on my way in. The only redeemable thing about this song is that at least Gareth Cliff wasn't poisoning my soul with his inane jibber jabber. Anyway, here's to originality. The song in question used a sample of an early eighties hit looped throughout its entirety. Don't ask me which song or quote the exact time frame. Then the "artist" had the lyrical prowess and integrity to start the song off with the words "This is it boys, this is war". Ninety Nine whats? I hear you shriek...

Anyway, back to the here and now - tomorrow the intrepid troops of Team Burger King once more storm the battlements of Pub Quiz. Hopefully this time with a full complement and a winning smile!

Also, last night The Hot Girlfriend outdid herself entertaining the family (hers and mine) to an unbelievably awesome dinner. Even the other half of the DSW was well impressed. Accolades all round!

NGDG: The Randy Blythe saga is proof that the uptight freedom-hating bureaucrats who upheld the communist Czech regime found a new lease on political life in the post-Soviet dispensation. Tom Stoppard's Rock n Roll needs a restage. If only to bear me out.

Spread The Love. It's Pussy Riot Day.

DRINKING WITH THE DEVIL

Today - on this deliciously Irreverent Friday - I'd like to thank those lovable scamps from K.O.B.U.S for brightening up my life (even more) by delivering this gem. For those of you who don't know, music can be cathartic, a healing medium, something to savour. Whichever way you prefer, you have to admit that music in its varied and glorious forms is never the same thing to different people. You take from it what you do. And the delightful irreverence with which K.O.B.U.S attack your senses is at once a light hearted affair, until you scratch under the surface. THIS right here is the soundtrack to your Friday. I give you the new single 'Drankduiwel'. Amen!

I made the mistake of opening up a news page on the interwebs this morning. Do you know what I saw? (Pronounced "eye sore")

"We Will Shut Down Cape" - ANC Youth league.
Taxpayers to fund "Zumaville"
Man in court for gran's rape.
Famer's alleged murderers caught. (Yes, "Famers")

And my own personal favourite...
Greatest Olympics rowing finish ever.

As for the first few, surprise surprise... I'm nothing if not a patriot and I still believe that this beautiful country of ours can be a great place to co-exist and forge a national identity of unity and mutual respect, but the more I read this shit, the more I think maybe, just maybe, my optimism is slightly misplaced.
Yes, a published headline about "Farmers" was written "Famers". Published!
Then I read about the GREATEST Olympic rowing finish EVER. Fuck me, but South Africans are prone to exaggeration! Congratulations guys! I'm well impressed that you did so well. All hail the conquering heroes! The years of hard work and sacrifice have finally paid off and you should enjoy a well earned accolade or 2. But the GREATEST rowing finish EVER? I watched it. They kinda glided over the water like most of the other competitors, only fractionally faster. I find myself wondering if the reporter who wrote that has ever seen a competitive rowing event, other than the drab cardigan-and-cucumber-sandwich affairs of the movies in the 50s.

Ok, on this Friday night, go out, sniff a few petrol tanks, make fun of young people who can't handle their booze, make bad life decisions, party til you have no recollection, and narrowly avoid arrest for indecent exposure! Basically everything 'Drankduiwel'! Long live rock 'n' roll, basic hedonism and a flair for the dramatic!

Just be kind to animals.
And don't drink and drive.

NGDG: Magic legs for the bridal fantasy. Magic legs for the tow-haired child. Magic legs for the Audi Q5. Magic legs for the house in the Burbs. Magic legs. Making life easy, magic legs.

Spread The Love. And Remember. It's Not Stalking If You're Upfront About It.

MY CLONE WOULD DEFINITELY HAVE BOOBS.

Life, as they say, is life. Opus said it. Then Laibach said it. They were both right. Here we sit.

Currently things are not too bad, with the exception of my Municipal woes. I'm watching some cricket. South Africa has just taken its gold medal tally up to 3 at the Olympics, an event - I'm told - which employs particularly dire graphic design. I really hope the public make as much of a fuss over the rowers as they did over Chad. What Chad did was amazing, but the public are a little too fixated on the fact that he beat Michael Phelps I think. That's like losing your shit over Dale Steyn when he scores more runs in an innings than Jacques Kallis, if Kallis was done for a duck. Michael Phelps has been an Olympic champion for 3 Olympics. Logic dictates that his reign would end sooner or later.

Anyway, onto my Municipal woes. These fucking geniuses finally figured out a way onto my property in order to take a meter reading for my water usage. They haven't done so in 13 months. So what do they do? They, like all good first graders take the big number and minus the slightly smaller number from it. With me so far? Then they (higher grader shit this) divide the resulting figure by 1. As in 1 month. Not 13 - in order to find a monthly average. Given that you are charged on an exponential scale, this has resulted in me now being billed thousands instead of hundreds. Also, if you read the fine print, you will find that withholding payment is a no-no even when the bill is in dispute. No wonder people go postal. If you see me being escorted from the City Council building in handcuffs after a hail of gunfire, tell my mother I love her.

Life, as discussed above, may indeed be life, but one cannot take anything for granted. Take Life insurance. Essentially you're betting someone a very large sum of money that you're going to die, and then you're trying your best to lose the bet. Even in the face of the overwhelming evidence that you're inevitably going to croak.

So the weather is nice enough for me to go and have a run. No excuses. Bugger. I actually hate running. Not that I'm able to talk and run at the same time, it's hard enough for me to keep my lungs inside, but it would be nice if I had a running partner who could chat to me. Perhaps an iPod is the answer. Why can't I just maintain my fitness and physique from the comfort of my couch whilst watching test cricket and drinking beer. That's so much more civilised.

And carrying on from yesterday's discussion, I am getting to the point where a clone of myself would come in handy. I've often wondered about the term "come in handy". Think about it.
Anyway, a clone. I could be in 2 places at once, a necessity sometimes. I could bring myself beer whilst lounging in front of the cricket, make salad AND braai at the same time, go pee without missing any of the movie, be my own designated driver, and I would call myself Dolly.

NGDG: Put your hands in the bag: there are insults, mad bastards, car trouble, levy increases. But there's also a 10km run, wine, holiday & a cookie. This bag is today. Your hand is now in the bag. Not in a weird, severed, ice-truck killer way. Just where I can see it.

Spread The Love. Double Dutch Rudder Your Clone.

I'M TOO GOOD

Today, I feel like this kid...

Yes you heard me. Not in the "I'm all haughty and looking down on mere mortals" kinda way today, although that could very often be taken as the case. Today I'm too damn good for my own good. Every now and then, after persevering with the notion that I am a good person and doing things to help everyone out and avoiding disappointing anyone and generally doing everything in my power to please people, along comes a situation where it is impossible to do so. When 2 opposite factions believe they have the monopoly over your time, effort and kindness. What IS a boy to do when they cannot possibly happen concurrently?

Basically take a long hard eyeball down a double barrelled shotgun and take bets with yourself which eye is gonna go "Kurt Cobain" first. That's pretty much all you can do. Also, situations like this lead you to question paths chosen and their overall worth. It's easy when you're trundling through life and all is hunky dory, but sometimes one has to evaluate which is most important to you, even if you know that choice is going to be of catastrophic consequence to at least one interested party.

Which leads to a feeling of helplessness and no small level of irritation at being made to feel like you're letting someone down. It's having the "taken for granted" table turned the wrong way around. Which sucks ass. And not in the good way...

And speaking of ass, last night I had a delightful dinner with DrHellCuz and his ICP friend. I can honestly say that it was the first time I can recall where I have been at a table in a social environment and I am by a long shot the least qualified person there. Luckily the conversation was mercifully low brow and restricted to the gutter.

At least some of my close friends have the common decency to be having a shitty time of it lately as well, so I don't feel like life is picking on me. Or at least their problems put my relatively first world problem into perspective. It really does help to type about it...

Hehehehe.

Anyway, it could be worse. I could be an internet photographer. Or own a Trilby.

Also, I have a far more pressing problem. Now that I think of it. Some of my interwebs Faeceboobs friends are actually - against all odds - real friends in real life. Even though they irritate the spamming bejeepers out of me with constant photos, event notifications, lame comments, and/or pictures of cats. I have clicked on the "Unsubscribe from pic/notifications/etc" a million times to no avail. How do I get rid of the clutter on my own little slice of the interwebs without telling them to fuck off directly?

In the immortal word of Zack, in the classic flick 'Zack and Miri make a porno' - and an apt summation of life - when you open the toilet lid to have a look at what's really going on: "There's pooh in there..."

Another man who is a constant source of inspiration and quotable quotes...
NGDG: It's up to me to say it. The best new release this past week was not The Dark Knight Rises (Katyusha rockets & Uzbek prisons aside) but the hilarious Magic Mike. It's 8 Mile meets Pirates Of The Caribbean. In Tampa, which is a very warm place. Where it's just more comfortable to wear seatless chaps.

Spread The Love. Mr Slave Needs It Too.