AY VONT TO SUCK YORR BLUT!

I found a nice movie with Jenna Jameson in it. It's called Samhain. Coincedence?

Happy Halloween, all you children of the night! And everyone else. Aaaah! Halloween... some people certainly do take it a little more seriously than others. Whilst some of my friends are going all out with Trick or Treat goodies, costumes, gigs, movies and even a street braai, some aren't. I am one of those. I will be happily tucked away in my studio making the soundtrack to tonight's Danse Macabre. No Tim Burton thank you very much...

It's kind of deflated this year anyway, since most people celebrated over the weekend. I saw the pictures from the zombie walk. If that's the sedate pace at which we are to be chased, I'd say we have fuck all to worry about.  I didn't see a single maypole, though. Seems it has gone all mainstream. Hall(mark)oween. Almost as trite as Valentines Day. And nowhere near as rad as Steak-n-Blowjob Day, although I have an issue with the merely annual nature of that particular celebration. Officially. Of course.

I read "Boo!" today and thought someone was addressing their girlfriend using a term of endearment...

I wonder how many of the ghosts, ghouls, fiends, vampires, mummies, gargoyles and the rest would cope in a real "encounters with the undead" situation. With the possible exception of The Dean, who seems to have his zombie apocalypse survival strategy in place, I think most people would shit themselves. I know if I ever heard the words "I vont to suck yorr blutt" softly and suddenly spoken to me, my trousers would have their own Hurricane Sandy.

Speaking of which, please take a moment to think of all the people, and I do mean ALL the people, that are affected by it. And the animals. Picture for one second having to rebuild your life after something like that.

For once I have absolutely nothing to complain about. (That's just a very clever ruse to hide the fact that I can complain a lot about a lot of stuff, but don't feel like typing it all out.) And to the 2 friends who genuinely have a complaint today - you 2 know who you are - chin up. People will disappoint you. It's a rule. The trick is to get through the rough so you can enjoy the smooth. Mmm, perhaps I should pitch that to Veet...
Anyway, you can always let me know when you need a drink and a chat. How does one check on the capacity of ones inbox now again?

Anyway, enjoy the festivities folks. Do not scare the children. They will get enough of that when they leave an outcome based education and find employment which requires the ability to read and write.

NGDG: If we have to have this Capetonian weather, can I at least get an iPhone and knock off at 3pm?

Spread The Love. Boo!

SLIPPERY WHEN WET!

Supply and demand, people. Supply and demand. The most basic business principle since the first prostitute thought "Ag, why the hell not..."
If the Bon Jovi tickets are too pricey for you, just don't go. I guarantee you the tickets will be sold out regardless of your bitter complaints. The minute a concert doesn't sell out is the minute the tickets are overpriced. Otherwise it could be argued that all things beyond your financial grasp are overpriced. Yet you don't see me bitching about not owning 24 Ferraris.
Big Concerts is a business, not your personal gateway to the stars.

Personally, I can say with absolute certainty that I outgrew Jon, Richie and friends roughly 24 years ago. I can still sing along to all the hits off Slippery When Wet and New Jersey, though.

And although I abhor "It's My Life", you can't deny the slick cool of Richie Sambora's intro to "Wanted Dead Or Alive". I foresee a bunch of middle aged people singing along to "Livin' On A Prayer" at the top of their lungs, having the time of their lives. Then heading off halfway through the third encore to pick up the kids from Grandma.

I'm saving myself for bands that don't wear cowboy boots.

I wonder if our next generations are going to moan as much when aberrations like Nicki Minaj travel here when they're washed up? Oh wait, hang on. That could be much sooner than we think, since the average longevity of current "Pop stars" is roughly as long as it takes to download their YouTube video. I say fuck everyone, give me Lemmy Kilmister or Keith Richards any day of the week. They will never die and they epitomise cool as fuck and rock 'n' roll's indomitable spirit of up yours.

Everybody now! "YOLO IS LIKE BAAAAAAAAD MEDICINE!"

NGDG: I love that my friends have a child called Neal. I read about his adventures and pretend that it's MY life in which I shit on rugs and head butt people for fun. This kid is more rock and roll than I'll ever be.

Spread The Love. You Can Even Give It A Bad Name. Like Bieber.

BLOOD FROM STONE

The new face of SARS.

Motherfuckers! That's all I can say about Customs. Blood sucking bureaucratic sodomisers of mothers. I have been waiting for this package of cds for ever and now Customs has detained it pending me being able to prove that I am me and that I have in fact bought aforementioned package. By fax. I want to go and kill somebody so hard, they die until they're dead!

And here I had been planning on writing a pleasant piece - full of reminiscing and anecdotes for you today...

Oh well, why not! I did have a pretty fantastic weekend after all...

Let's start with the mind bending experience I had on Friday night courtesy of some old fart from New York who rightly bemoans the state of the world and is pissed off enough about it to create monolithic slabs of noise art through which to express his disdain and distaste for humankind. The Swans in full flight are peerless, and so perfectly, painfully flawed that they are beyond compare. I was rapt - and in a happy place very few experiences are capable of creating - all evening. With my wine and my undivided attention being soaked up by Michael Gira and cohorts. The sheer scale of sonic power these war-scarred veterans manage to create without the use of things like over driven guitars is staggering. And something to be savoured.

Saturday - after a very successful band rehearsal - the Hot Girlfriend pitched up in time for us to get going to the much anticipated High School Reunion. I was kind of edgy because my best mate from school had cancelled last minute and I am sure that he would have enjoyed it tremendously. I couldn't find the damn venue, even though I'd been there before. Not an auspicious start. But once we got there and I recognised an old face or 70, things got well and truly under way. Being 2 hours "late", by the time we got there some of the usual suspects were already three sheets to the wind - refreshing for a bunch of fogies, but having witnessed the very same behaviour from the very same people back in the day, not entirely surprising. After literally wading through about 30 minutes of handshaking, hugs, kisses and some sincere, some not so sincere "hey, how you doing, great to see you"s, it was time settle into some beers and conversations. Typically, those people with whom you had the most in common in school proved to be excellent company - it was as if you had seen them yesterday. Booze flowed, people shouted over each other as everyone fought to get the last chunk of their life's achievements condensed and delivered above the next one and a wonderful time seemed to be had by all. Well, except for the "plus ones", who, as expected - kind of mulled around and took up space next to their husbands, wives, etc who were all happily reminiscing and remonstrating. Luckily I made a point all evening of introducing the Hot Girlfriend to everyone I greeted (I'm useless at that usually...). It was an absolute pleasure to catch up with some of my old buddies - the only pity was that I had to leave after about 3 hours to go and DJ at the Halloween party at Mercury.

I ended up not DJing. These things happen. There was a tap on the bar and a friendly bartender who was only too eager to serve the contents to me. Black Label Draft and I have a longstanding arrangement that involves amnesia, poverty, a roaring good time, and monumenstrual hangovers! It didn't disappoint.

Sunday was very chilled, with the exception of pushing a car up and down my street. With aforementioned hangover.

Which brings us to today and my wildly successful shopping spree at lunchtime. I went out to price materials for Tarty Farty Tequila Party's custom foster puppy play pen. I obviously overdid it a bit on the design and staggered out of the hardware store barely able to breathe - gasping and spluttering. Abandoning that idea, I thought it couldn't harm to see if there was something suitable at Cash Crusaders. Lo! And behold! An infant's play pen, cot maggafter absolutely perfect for her purposes and at a mere fraction of the cost. I have now done my good deed for the week. And speaking of which, I need to start arranging the next Lovecats show.

Add to that the fact that I found a copy of Van Wilder and my day is made.

Now if only someone could find the dimmer switch for the Cape Doctor.

NGDG: Will Smith needs to make another movie. With Jason Statham. And Claire Danes. Set on Earth. At the time of the Crusades. With an Armada and fire. Lots of fire. I don't ask for much.

Spread The Love. But None For Customs. Fuckers.

PUMPKIN - NOT A CALL TO INCEST

I was musing earlier that I was going to play only Ween songs throughout my entire DJ set tomorrow night. At a goth party. Then when people came to me with furrowed brows (more than likely sans real eyebrows) with concerns for my mental health and their distaste for my selection, I could happily retort with a hearty "Hallo!". On repeat. I need to download a shitload of Ween now...

Yes, dear readers. It's Pumpkin Tits weekend! All the ghouls come out to play and all the children harass the home owners in their neighbourhoods for sweets. Dentists rejoice. Parents despair. I pretend I'm not home.

But this year it will be true. I won't be home. Because I am going to meet some very old friends and acquaintances. I have a high school reunion. It's really quite exciting. I am going to be seeing people I haven't seen in a very long time, good and bad. Some people I am obviously very keen to see, and find out how their lives have turned out. Others, not so much. Not everyone in high school was sympathetic to my assertion that I was the most important kid in the class and therefore "the boss of the game". Mainly the girls. They didn't deal well with the gangly, spotty apparition that was trying to put on the moves using his extra sexy teapot-on-a-stove voice. Thank goodness I wasn't short to boot, that would have been the end...

You know how it's bad luck to open an umbrella indoors? It's even worse to open one in someone's arsehole.

The clock is ticking. My time alone with Michael Gira and his cronies is rapidly approaching. I managed to curb my enthusiasm last night, while making a glorious potjie and did not put on the new Swans disc. I expect tonight's experience to be serene. Oh shit, I just got a picture of the Williams sisters in my head. Get it out! Get it out!

Another wonderful reacquainting I'm looking forward to tomorrow is with Jill. She is a thing of beauty. She is my "sponsored" guitar. She is coming home with me again for a while. I will make her squeal. With my fingers. One of which is healing nicely, thanks...

Let's see, what else am I doing this weekend. Eating a lot of potjie. Oh ja, and holing up with the Hot Girlfriend between social engagements. Sod everyone.

Also, I am missing out on a weekend away because of all my commitments. I feel a strong case of FOMO coming on. I hope I don't get the mopes. Tarty Farty Tequila Party, Rose Thorn, Commander Conker and a lot of other people are trekking to Sutherland (where I hear everything is Kiefer than everywhere else...) for my sister's birthday celebrations. I hope the Brother-In-Awe doesn't try making a door where a window should be this weekend, he might hurt his hand...

I'm suddenly in the mood for a spot of golf, trundling about in the cart sounds like fun. But I think I'll just focus on rehearsals rather. The upcoming show should be one NOT to miss.

Happy Irreverent Friday, y'all!

NGDG: It may be 14° and light failing. But, dammit, my soft-top and I will have our summer!

Spread The Love. Not So Much The Rockets.

BILLIONS OF BILIOUS BLISTERING BLUE BARNACLES!

It is here! I know I said it yesterday, but I'm going to keep repeating it until someone gets it.

I am, of course, referring to a blog. Posted by Tarty Farty Tequila Party. In which she explores the paranormal and doesn't make a single reference to Supernatural, and for that we are all infinitely grateful. Her coverage of a weekend away deep in the heart of the Karoo and a bunch of ghosts is riveting. I had been invited, but I'd have been useless. Firstly, it's very difficult to out run beings that can drift through walls, especially with trousers filled to the brim with pooh, and secondly, ectoplasm wreaks havoc with my hair.

So I chose the relative comfort of civilisation, where at least you know what's doing you violent harm, and she tottered off to experience a series of "pinch it off mid stream" moments...

We're glad to have her back, unscathed.

I have often made assertions about being Martha Stewart incarnate, but I have never told you how kleinserig I am. Last night, whilst making a uniquely healthy and unhealthy in equal parts meal, I went one culinary step beyond and sliced a piece of thumb carpaccio into the green salad. Obviously. I have a show coming up and will probably need to be able to hold a plectrum during rehearsals and the actual show.

This, unlike all the spooky nonsense happening in Matjiesfontein, is historically accurate. The day before Grämlich's very first proper recording date, myself, TDB and JDP found ourselves at a faculty braai for the jewellery designers at our institute of higher learning. It was at the beach. I was of course Mister Popular, having been overheard remarking that all the girls definitely looked like porn stars, but went nonetheless. It was all fun and games until someone lost an eye - proverbially. As I recall we were larking about flinging seaweed at each other (as you do) when out of the periphery of my vision a large slab of damp ocean flora came hurtling towards my temple. Involuntarily I ducked, fell over and grabbed TDB in one graceful movement, propelling him downwards onto the barnacled rocks with a thud. He tried to break our fall with his outstretched hands, leaving him with deeply lacerated palms and me deeply apologising to little avail. The next day he bled for our art. My mother doesn't call it art.

A few months later and the band was gathering momentum, and lo and behold, we get another opportunity to record. We're out celebrating. Celebrating at that stage of our lives constituted solely of drinking enough cheap shit to get as drunk and possible, permanently opining over our lack of sexual activity, and dancing like a pissed off Schalk Burger one flying tackle away from the sin bin. I was happily minding my own business, standing there throwing the hair around, no doubt attempting to impress whichever vision had made an impression on me, when I was suddenly the one making an impression. With my thumb "knuckle". On the stone wall in front of me. After having been flung with some force towards said wall. After TDB decided to leave his own shoulder shaped impression on me. Out of the blue. Hand in traction for 6 weeks. Never mind being able to play guitar successfully. Masturbation was a serious challenge! Forget what people say about "it feels like someone else"...

Don't get me started on the time I lacerated my finger almost clean off hours before sound check and had to play a show doped up and taped up, thankfully spraying plectrums and not blood, but having lost enough to be woozy for days. The tequila storm after the show had nothing, I repeat NOTHING, to do with nose diving down 2 flights of stairs or peeing in a chest of drawers...

But as musicians who take what they do seriously - even if no one else does - we soldier on and fight through the pain. Let's hope I can manage the next rehearsal or 2 without crying in front of my friends.

Which brings us conveniently to tonight. I will be revisiting the award winning potjie I made last year for Tarty Farty Tequila Party's birthday. Only this time it will be for Dinner Club. Hallah-lube-jizz!

NGDG: "Bring champagne on Monday. We'll need to celebrate if this gets signed off!" Lady, this shit is the reason I drink NOW!

Spread The Love. Hold The Ectoplasm.

THE UGLY DUCKLINGS

Yes folks! It is here! Sounds almost like the punchline from another recent joke, although for the life of me I can't remember it...

Last night it came.

Sis! Get your mind out of the gutter.

Or not...

Yes, equal parts dirt and sex, as you so sordidly made the connection without any prompting from me, I would like to announce the arrival of my Swans goodies! I am now the proud owner of THE SEER and the live DVD package WE ROSE FROM YOUR BED WITH THE SUN IN OUR HEAD. Glory, glory hallelujah! I think I'll treat myself to some quality alone time very soon. Just me, a good glass of wine or several (some occasions warrant opening that special bottle you've been keeping) and the studio monitors... After which it's DVD time with the big screen. Actually I have no idea which order. Perhaps as they were released. As Michael intended.

Thank you to the one and only Grämlich Growler!

And speaking of all things wonderfully musical, here is a reminder to go and check out Lucy Kruger. If for no other reason than I said so and if you don't know yet, you owe it to yourself to be rendered overwhelmed by a truly wonderful artist.

And since today is proving to be quite summery (read: hotter than a whore in church, in Texas) and yesterday's run - despite the very promising start - ended in near heat stroke and lung failure, I think I'll give today's strenuous exercise a skip. Maybe tomorrow. At the moment, all I could possibly face is a nice cold beer somewhere. In the shade for preference.

And as with most of my other posts, I have nothing of any substance with which to enrich your lives. Just the usual worthless wankery. It's been a slow day. Actually, I'm totally lying through my teeth, but I am not at liberty to tell you about the exciting developments! If I were female, on the wrong side of 45 or 13, and half retarded, I may even be prone to make silly noises as characterised by typing them out for you (and for the interwebnets) to see. However, I am just a boring old git who frowns on these things and although I have heard of 50 Shades Of Grey, have never even read "erotica". Never mind watched it, unless you count that one very uncomfortable time with JDP when he made me watch 'The Invisible Man'. Man, it's crazy how the mind makes associations. Soft porn is like soft serve. Someone gives something white a dramatic lick and then something falls onto the pavement - leaving everyone involved feeling cheated and unsatisfied. And sometimes, like when I sat through that movie with JDP, crying like a child...

We're fast approaching the night all the ghastlies and the ghostlies come out to play. Yes, Halloween is upon us and there are a million cool parties to go to. Seems pretty much every metal or alternative band has jumped on the same idea - and although I hope that this means a variety of wonderful shows to choose from - I fear it really means that is thins the crowds out. Sad but true. So choose wisely. And then come to the Halloween Party at Mercury. Mainly because I will be DJing a set of devilish aural delights for you. To get your ghoulish groove on...

And on that grim note, and because Aunty Nexus has just started a thread on Vajazzling, laters!

NGDG: Oooh ooh ooh! Married With Children in-joke in Sons Of Anarchy. To Gemma: You can dye your hair red. Gemma: I'd rather shave it bald.

Spread The Love. It's A Song.

CHAMPAGNE WISHES AND CAVIAR DREAMS

Here is a very important piece of musical trivia. You could call it vital knowledge as well...

Joy Division was not a punk band. They never were, not even when they were known as Warsaw. The fact that they owe their existence largely due to the punk explosion that occurred in Manchester following the Sex Pistols show in the Lesser Free Trade Hall has nothing to do with it. They did not sound like the Buzzcocks. That would be like calling The Smiths punk. Or Simply Red punk. Both Morrissey and Mick Hucknell were also in attendance. 'Post punk' is a recognised genre and Joy Division, along with Siouxsie and the Banshees and similar acts, eventually spawned a little thing known as goth. A much maligned and marginalised genre of music that is heavily reliant on culture and clothing. And has unfortunately done nothing but shoot itself in the foot since roughly Dreadful Shadows' Buried Again album, which is possibly the last decent goth music made. And only because the focus has swerved dramatically towards unnecessary histrionics and what was once a rich vein of talent has been diluted by home recording software and the unfortunate truth that such a dark subculture inevitably attracts the reprobates and the socially awkward.

But let's not get into all that. Lest I fuck up my incredibly wonderful mood. For some reason I am in an even better mood than usual. I'm almost drunk on life, as it were. I have been in a chirpy mood all day and I don't intend on anyone ruining that for me. Might have something to do with the fact that I will probably be collecting my new Swans later today. Music to uplift even the most deflated of us.

And now my train of thought's been completely derailed...

Ok, we might as well go back to my original point. I am merely pointing out one tiny little error and am being entirely too pedantic. Most people probably don't even care for the distinction. The fact is, I do. And since this is my little soap box and I have fuck all else to write about, I happen to have made my own personal mountain out of a molehill. There. Also, I am currently waiting for the new My Dying Bride, which is "in the mail". More incredibly happy news! Do you think it's possible to be so "shiny happy people" because of all that?

Perhaps it's because I am going to my high school reunion on Saturday evening. I posted recently that I was unsure if I should go as Romy or Michele. The conundrum continues...
It's going to be funny (peculiar, not haha) seeing all the old faces. and I do mean old. I have read the RSVP list. It includes some girls I wasted too much time pining over. It includes some of the biggest dickheads ever to stalk the planet. It includes, luckily, by and large a great group of people that collectively ensured a particularly happy school experience and I am very excited to be seeing a lot of them again. I'm sure there'll be some very interesting stories. I'm telling everyone I'm unemployed/a lingerie model/supplier to Adult World.
Or that I live with my entire extended family in a hippie commune made of pooh huts.
Or that I'm training to be a cosmonaut, but I fear I may be flunking the course because I have an irrational fear of baked beans.

I'm even looking forward to today's run. Fun in the sun. I hope I don't collapse in a gasping, retching heap.

My, my! It IS a good news day! Responding to a plea sent out yesterday regarding a guitar that had been stolen from Ashtray Electric's crazy axeman, Rudi Cronje. Apparently Cash Crusaders in Wynberg had the presence of mind to grab the guitar off of the c**t who tried to sell it. And they say social networking does nothing but keep people out of work! Rudi, mate - use this happy reunion to everyone's advantage and continue writing and rocking - for all to enjoy. And bravo Cash Crusaders!

NGDG: By December, the annoying child with the visitation rights to the flat upstairs will be gone. Jerryldene Springer from 27 will be gone. This festive season may very well be one of peace and goodwill.

Spread The Love. Champagne And Caviar In Baggies.

THE BEST TIME!

It rained quite hard on Friday. In fact, The Cape Of Storms was quite resolutely going about living up to its name. So of course my mates and I got together, stripped down to shorts and spent an hour playing football in the freezing, driving rain. What an absolute blast! The first few minutes, until you're thoroughly soaked, are mildly unpleasant, like Bryan Adams or - I am led to believe - a vasectomy. After that, it's like being a child, scooting about in the wet like a summer afternoon caper through the sprayers. The rain also serves to bring the general level of play down a notch, which suits me just fine...

Saturday started like Saturdays are starting now, with a nice pleasant jog along the Liesbeek River. It's a wonderful river. It flows the wrong way, mostly, if "flow" is appropriate for this glacial mud mask of terror. The terror is amplified by the large variety of water fowl, who all delight tremendously in making as much flappy fuss as possible when I approach. The Hot Girlfriend did much better this week and I escaped with only a handful of death threats and promises of grotesque retribution.

Band practice went very well on Saturday afternoon and then it was off to celebrate yet another birthday, as Wikkle Poon Daemon turned another year older, wiser and more good looking. Amid howls and hoots of delight as Norwich beat Arsenal, we ordered a few drinks and generally avoided the biblical shitstorm that was last year's corresponding event. As we left pretty much everyone still had their dignity intact and off we did bugger so that The Hot Girlfriend could make me a famous dish of hers she hadn't tried out on me yet. Transpires it is called "Dutch Oven Dish" when you translate it directly. The significance of this was not met with the guffaws I had hoped for when pointing it out...

Be that as it may, that's where the similarities ended - it was outstanding! Wow! I think I may just have to hold onto this one. And of course now I shall appropriate it and add it to my Martha Culinary Collection. To go with all the million others.

Anyway, Sunday I joined TDB and Me-Swifty for a spot of brekkie and some cricket. But not before we went to go and pick up R. Kelly, who had overslept and was still dronk babalas. Watching him struggle with his gourmet sirloin burger at Karibu was as entertaining as it was exasperating. I was luckily immune to his inane banter as I was completely engrossed in my kudu burger. I'm definitely going to have stretch marks if I persist with this running lark...

Off to Newlands and the matchday half marathon, as you walk from the other side of Claremont - the only spot there is any available parking. After a quick reccie and a visit to the ATM to draw nog geld, we found the bar I was hoping for. I love it when they have the Mitchells stand at the cricket, because Castle Draft is piss. Usually the only beer available, I'll drink it under duress, but since they work on a token basis and all beers, while not being created equal, are the same price, I'd rather savour and enjoy a fine local brew than quaff a pint of cold urine. We settled down on the grass embankment and started to enjoy the cricket, hoodies up and jackets thankfully keeping out the howling ice wind from Winterfell. Surprisingly, although it threatened to rain all day and night, it didn't. Small mercies. It was still brass monkeys. Which probably accounts for the savage dent in my finances from the many, many trips to the bar. All in all, a wonderful experience. Every time I find myself at Newlands I vow to come back more often. I hope that is the truth this time around. Although I believe the biggest reason for my lengthy absences is probably the variety of people one gets to observe at such gatherings. Grandiosely obese warships of individuals scoffing stuff that an American would baulk at, children using you as target practice for their ongoing private games of lawn cricket, the geniuses who install themselves near the front of the embankment on camping chairs and block the view for EVERYONE else, the gaggle of serious fans right at the front who can't contain their enthusiasm and spend more time up on their feet than demurely sitting and enjoying the game, fokken vlaggie waaiers, an entire section of the crowd that had not one neck between them but STILL all wore pop up collars, the dick who spent all his time on his iPad, the Goodwood Mechanic and the hundreds of opinionated commentators who clearly don't know anything about the gentleman's game of cricket. Still... It's better than being a cycling enthusiast, eh! Where's your "overcome all odds" spirit now, Lance? M'kay...

Anyway, it was a wonderful occasion and day out. Thanks to all. Lets' do it again soon!

And now, thanks to The Poon, I am listening to the latest Katatonia in the office. Things just keep getting better. HAPPY BIRTHDAY WIKKLE POON!

Tonight, we flip. Tonight we flop. Tonight we will rewrite the book on sombre music. Slowly. My wine, however, will not be in silence...

NGDG: Sure, it's supposed to be rather momentous, but I can't help thinking it's a cat planning to jump from space.

Spread The Love. Grooooooovy!

HOT POTATO

Seeing as it's currently such a hot topic right now on the intrawebnets, and as my final act of poking the coals, I would like to address the issue of tolerance.
Tolerance for other races.
Tolerance for other sexes or gender orientation.
Tolerance for other colours.
Tolerance for other creeds.
Tolerance for other peoples' music taste.
Tolerance for other religions.
Tolerance for other peoples' sense of style.

[I really do sound like a hippy, don't I?]

I defy each and every reader of this here virtual soap box to honestly go and tick off as many boxes as you can. All of them? Can you? Really? I can't, no matter how hard I try. In fact, I'd go as far as to say that I only know one person who can truly do so. I'd love to know if any more of my friends can...

We live in a society that encourages free speech AND condemns any form of intolerance. This is - quite obviously - an open invitation to all the mouth breathers out there to have their say. And will more often than not result in conflict. However, given the challenge above, we are all to blame for making this world an ugly place to live.

And then my mother asks me why I drink so much...

Wars are fought over this shit. Bar brawls are started over this shit. Take a stand against it. I know my friends and I are. And I'll try to be more tolerant of things like dress sense and music taste. Actually, who am I kidding? The best I can do is try and ignore bright jeans, leather moccasins, Jihad scarves, silly hats, caps worn at a jaunty angle OVER the ears, prison bitch hang-jean-pants, cheese cloth button shirts, stone washed jeans, anything tie-dyed, velour tracksuits, Chav argyle print, anything with a sailor motif, Joe Jackson virgin-taker shoes, have I mentioned Jihad scarves and silly hats?

As for the music some people listen to or inflict upon others, there I draw the line. As we have previously established, my music taste is beyond reproach. Mainly because it is so subjective and I like everything in my own collection. I just played Septic Flesh's happy little Friday ditty, 'The Vampire From Nazareth' to my colleague. Again. For shits and giggles. I giggled. She did the other one.

And on that note, Happy Fucking Irreverent Friday! And happy birthday to the ladies of the day: Chocolaty and The TV Presenter! I hope both of you are being spoiled and go out and get hammered tonight!
Like my fellow axe-murderer, Bacon Balaclava, is going to do tomorrow. Like last year, when he accosted the people at the table next door with a large foam sword and I was referred to as a douche-canoe.

Dear Cape Town. I have paid for today's football. Please stop fucking around and become sunny and mild. Thanks.

NGDG: I think the only reason I roll from couch to bed is that the phone charger is next to the latter.

Spread The Love. And Will Someone Buy Me Fucking Drink. Please!

I WISH I WAS DAVID THORNE

Today I got a crash course in the not-too-subtle art of "trolling".

"Trolling", or as I am led to believe "trawling" is when bored nerds gang up on someone that was stupid enough to post something ill advised on Faeceboobs, thereby vilifying the sanctity of the intrawebnets.

The case in point - that got me out of my usual lethargic approach to just about everything, was some little pillock who made a perceptibly racist remark which included a reference to rape - a violent crime which is as unforgivable as it is lamentably prevalent. His comment showed an amazing lack of sensitivity and was downright offensive. As so many people pointed out - not speaking out against such filth is tantamount to condoning it. A small amount of people with nothing better to do also pointed out that nothing is ever solved within the confines of social networking.

What it did highlight for me was the tremendous power words can have - either to cause hurt or offence - or in an outraged response to something quite revolting. There is also a clear chasm in the level of education out there. This is mainly between old people like myself, who are familiar with the alphabet as an entity not only found on a cellphone buttons, and ag, let's call them "born frees". The discrepancy is not limited to age however, as some of my rather younger friends can read and write quite well and some of the older ones seem to have fallen into the sms-speak trap. The problem with "born frees" is that they think it means "free" to spew forth the kind of distasteful rubbish we had to put up with today. And then have the nerve only a teenage could have to defend it - in themselves and in others.

The other thing I learned about "trolling" today was that it gets old very quickly. Mainly because - as is usually the case - when 2 opposing philosophies go head on there is rarely a satisfactory conclusion. That, and the comments start getting stupid and the memes start flowing.

A wise friend of mine said that the problem with social networking is that it provides a platform from which people can feed their own sense of self importance. I immediately challenged him because I do NOT restrict myself to only social networking, but he has a very good point. As does another good friend of mine that pointed out that - whilst today's spitting response to one form of prejudice was unanimous and without mercy, not too long ago another form of prejudice was allowed to strut around, balls out, without so much as a raised eyebrow.
And in yet another debate, I declined to reply in a thread as I felt that it wasn't worth my time having to back up yet another attack on someone's poor grammar - the scourge of today's linguistic state of affairs.

All in all it's been fantastically entertaining. To a point. I shall henceforth refrain from involving myself in wordy battles online. Mainly because my words are superior to yours and it would be an unfair contest. The pen being mightier than the sword however, I will not rest until I have stolen all your pens. Someone needs to update that saying. The correct use of a computer keyboard is mightier than the sword? Doesn't have the same ring to it, does it?

What I have really learned from all this today (in my best Southpark voice) is that the online community is nothing more than a reflection of society in real life. My experiment (read "lazy day at work") has led me to the conclusion that no matter if they're prancing around on the street or hiding behind their keyboards, humanity is by and large a fuck up on a swift downward spiral and is ensuring its own eradication. With any luck I will still be allowed to live out my last few years in peace and an unlimited supply of beer. Perhaps the answer is to actually live your life, rather than waiting for prompts to do so from a cyber community. Personally I'm here for the pretty pictures.

Anyway, it is my sincere wish that every single one of you can exist in a world without bigotry or strife. Or that people will grow out of their narrow minded views and learn to embrace differences among one another. I am not a bleeding heart hippie, but I do know that it has to start somewhere. Maybe start by being nice to one person. Let someone in front of you in traffic on your way home. And don't kak yourself if they don't fuse their hazards in abject gratitude. Do it because you want to.

Also, today marks the day that the world was blessed with the presence that would eventually transmogrify into the Meyer Of Awesomeville. Happy birthday! Another year older, another year better. Who would even have thought improvement was possible? Yet, here we are! Have a great one, mate.

NGDG: "If you can keep your head while all around you others are losing theirs, you'll be a man, my son." Imagine the royalties if Kipling WAS your dad. You could afford to lose your shit too.

Spread The Love. Not The Bullshit.

ADDA GIRL KNEE PADS.

Thothe are mouth padth. Thaid Igor.

These are Adda Girl Knee Pads. Or at least it's the link to the funniest shit I've ever heard.

I have just been reminded of the service industry. If it isn't one friend debating the existence of porn in a future devoid of flying cars, then it's another lamenting having to work as a bringer of food. And although this sounds like a less likely winner in the nobility stakes, I defy you to do it. It's hard. It's bloody hard. I once ventured into the world of taking orders. 4 hours into my first training shift at an upmarket establishment it didn't end well. The chef got the Gordon Ramsey experience in reverse... So at all times be kind to your waitress. You don't want questionable additions to your dish.

Also, I have just spent 38 minutes on the telephone with a saint who works for our company's service provider. His patience was limitless and the way he managed to solve my pc crisis, commendable. Not too often you get something like that...

Anyway, here we sit on this glorious day, unfortunately desk bound. What a pity. I think I should take up professional beach bum. The pay isn't that hot though, and the leathery look lost its appeal along with Donatella's self respect. No one should end up looking like a crispy fried Kermit.
I think another run after work is in order - I managed yesterday without dying in an asphyxiated nose dive, clutching at my spasming chest. Instead I actually quite enjoyed it. Summer's here folks. People are wearing less. Also, the Promenade appears to be a spot of choice for sunbathing. Didn't know that. At least I can't get into trouble for ogling, it's hard enough to see where I'm going through the red mist of death that descends upon my vision about 200m in. I actually have to concentrate on breathing lest I sieze up altogether. And even if I could lithely bound up and down without collapsing like a sack of hammers, I'd still have the boiled beetroot mask of terror and the dripping nose and chin to severely hinder my chances of making anything approaching a favourable impression.

Some days I wonder why I inflict upon myself this lunacy. Oh yes - now I remember! The beer gut. I've made numerous failed attempts at getting rid of it. Do you think the (few) cold beers after the run are counterproductive?

Seen on Sea Point main road: Upon completion of construction of one of the new MyCiti Bus stops, it is immediately annexed and occupied by the local fresh produce street vendor. Got to love it!

Looking forward to the music making tonight. Should be an interesting evening. And yes, I intend keeping it a closely guarded secret. That way we can stay truly underground and not expose ourselves to any criticism or ridicule. Just the way I like it. Unless of course you were referring to Axxon, who will once again grace the stage with a manic mechanized assault in a month's time at Frontline. Hopefully this time some people can hold their shit together and stay long enough to actually experience the glory. With us on the night, an insane selection of fellow noise smiths in the form of Wildernessking, Wargrave and Suiderbees, who have a very catchy catchphrase...

NGDG: A dead duck in the ocean is less disturbing than a dead duck in a bathtub.

Spread The Love. And The Pate.

FREE KISSES

What have you all been getting up to in my absence? Should I make those nice signs folk are so fond of hanging on their dogs for you? "I'm a naughty bugger and I drank water from the toilet without checking for pooh first" or "I accidentally got my nose lodged in a Great Dane's rectum"...

Anyone?

No?

Ok, I'll tell you what I got up to. If you insist. On Friday I went to play football. It was murder and I sucked. I did NOT enjoy myself. One rarely does when one is in the throes of baking a "useless" pie. The beers afterwards were a most welcome refreshment AND distraction. I was a right misery. Bless The Hot Girlfriend for her patience. Especially since I decided to cook when we got home and when we got around to eating it was virtually Saturday already.

Saturday was started at Rose Thorn's abode for breakfast. Which was more of a bribe to get me over there to supervise some musical endeavour. Not complaining. Thereafter it was all reversed as Rose Thorn and Commander Conker came to my place for a nice leisurely afternoon braai. I had a catastrophically low intake of beer as I was the designated driver for the evening, but all was well.

So. I had to go to a backpackers. A fucking back fucking packers! And pay for the privilege! The occasion was another Th'DamnedCrows show and the birthday of one of our close mates, The Lodge Owner. Luckily the bloody place was devoid of stinking hippies and any form of Euro-trash, but I still couldn't drink. I am no fun without a beer in my hand. I don't know what to do with myself. Thank goodness I wasn't the only person apparently not having a good time, but I think that probably didn't have as much to do with the lack of gentle alcoholic persuasion.

The Pits started proceedings and rocked out to a bouncing dancefloor. Apparently dressing like Flo from Andy Capp is now the look de joure. And something resembling a self conscious twist that looks more like you're attempting to turn around on your barstool without using your hands to get to the beer behind you on the counter.
My clear lack of fashion sensibility - whilst crippling my credentials on the catwalks of Milan and New York - will probably never understand why the youth of today all look like either the cast of 8 Mile or like they're about to board a sailing vessel as a cleaning lady.

I would say that next "on strode" Th'DamnedCrows, but the stage is possibly a little cosy to use such hyperbole. Luckily for all of us this lot doesn't need me to over elaborate their exploits, as they FUCKING OWN everything and everyone every time they blast though another blistering set of belligerent and degenerate good old fashioned wreck 'n' roll. It's high octane stuff! And L.I.Am is every bit the consummate front man with his engaging banter between songs and flying fingers whilst he dry humps the big red double bass. The rest of them aren't too kak either...
I have a confession. When I first started with the pantie collecting back in Revellus (a previous band) I assumed they had been flung at me. I'm that self centred. Clearly they were meant for JDP as he is the common link between that band and this. There rained down a parachute squadron of inappropriately large knickers - and much fun was had between the crowd and the band as panties were flung back and forth and worn on heads. I hope that the current tragedy affecting dress sense hasn't penetrated that deep...

Anyway, if you remember the Psycho Reptiles fondly, go and check these lads out - a quite authentic island in a sea of otherwise drivelly dross. With Th'DamnedCrows, the music is boss, not the accompanying scene's prerequisite physical baubles.

Sunday was funday. Cheese and Wine (or Drinkies n Stinkies) with the little sister and consummately more pleasant member of the DSW. I took along a bottle of expensive wine with which to impress everyone. I was so excited until my friend Jean Pant told me it had been compromised in some way. I was crestfallen and decided to imbibe as much as possible to sooth my injured ego and dented enthusiasm. Luckily it returned with every gulp of beer/wine/whiskey...
The spread was out of this world. As it usually is. Mater and Pater sat primly on the couch while everyone attempted civilised small talk while getting shitfaced. As soon as they left, the Brother In Awe leapt for the remote and the party began. By that time I was pretty much stuck inside the chair I had been occupying and it was virtually impossible to pry my narrow ass from it to go home. But alas, eventually, home we had to go. Apparently there was a lot of loud giggling involved again. Tarty Farty Tequila Party was also in attendance. You can imagine...

Which brings us to Mondays. I don't like Mondays. Geldoff was right. I have to relinquish the Hot Girlfriend to real life for 5 days every Monday. At least I have band practice to look forward to. Last night went pretty well. Keyboard parts are now finalised until they change again.

And now we're here. After a tortuous morning spent fixing the entire network of computers in the office, I am ready to go home. I have fuck all more interest in being here. Later!

NGDG: The only thing more dangerous than a junkie with a gun, or a woman scorned with incriminating photos, is an afternoon nap when you've had a few drinks in you.

Spread The Love. If You Know Where It Is.

SMARTIE PANTS

The other McFlurry...

Before your sordid little minds even go there, no, I am not sitting in the office with my lower half doing a poor imitation of a McFlurry. That would be - other than mildly amusing and uncomfortably sticky - disgusting. My colleague would probably also not be too thrilled. Not to mention the confectionery crack syndrome - something I might regret when taking my exercise later...

No, dear gentle reader, I am referring to the latest new gadget in my life. My infinitely more tech savvy sibling (and the charismatic half of the DSW) was kind enough to provide me with yet another hand-me-down cellular telephone. We have now reached a stage where this one is a touch screen smart phone, or close enough. Suffice it to say that this lowly tech-tard is feeling rather spiffy right now - all cool 'n' shit! Also, because I have been making do with base models up until now because this option has furnished my house. Game deals - how I love you!

So now I'm attempting to teach myself how to use this thing. I feel like my Mom, who still insists on smsing in caps because she can't get the hang of changing font specs mid message. It looks cool though! I can now also do all that swipey, sweepy, pinchy, pokey screen greasing everyone else does...

And speaking of burgers, last night's Dinner Club Church thing was the fourth time in 5 days I'd eaten a burger of some description. I'm burgered up. Klaar. Finished. Overs-kadovers. This would be funny if it weren't so tragic, given my family's close ties to this particular style of sammitch. Clearly from the wrong side of the tracks, if things were different I could have been an Earl. My name is - for better or for worse - something else.

What else can I tell you. Oh yes, I made an entire piece of furniture yesterday after work. Well, when I say made, what I really mean is "cut a perfectly good existing piece in two and sand and stain it". Still, I'm quite chuffed with my handiwork. A phrase most honest men would admit to, methinks. It was a desk and is now some sort of utility table for the passage. Everyone always needs a place to chuck their keys and sunglasses. Also, it has drawers. For all the trifling little trinkets of crap we are too lazy to throw away. See, perfect!

And as soon as I post this (no doubt as you're reading it right now) I'll be sauntering along the aisles of Fruit & Veg City purchasing as much lamb as my trolley-basket-wagon can hold. I may even buy a piece of fruit. No veg, though. That would just be too much!
Whist I am doing this I intend glancing at my new touch screen smart phone constantly in case I missed an sms conveying earth shattering news. Or life changing status updates. One must, when one is in Rome...

And tonight we make history, but more on that when bags become less constrictive and cats allow themselves to operate under instruction.

Coincidentally, Tarty Farty Tequila Party does not share my current culinary caution.

NGDG: Joseph Gordon Levitt has been dumped onscreen by so many women, the only way he could ever rebuild his self-esteem was to become a superhero. He chose the only one, Robin, who's probably still a virgin.

Spread The Love. It's In The Air. Like Germs.

I LOVE LUCY

You know how everyone is always going on about the lamentable state of music in its current incarnation?
You know how Autotune and cannibalising popular songs from the 80s have all but destroyed the integrity of the music we're forced to endure these days?
You know how they've done away with Programme Directors at radio stations and copy/pasted Billboard Top 40 interspersed with the hardest working local acts (those that maintain high online profiles)?
You know how jaded old men stand at the bar in Mercury and make comment on the fashions of the day between tequilas?
You know how we all secretly yearn for something fresh, new, exciting, charged with real emotion and above all, slick and amazing?

Well, that something just fell into your lap without you even knowing it - without you even having to leave the bar.

Enter one young lady fresh off the bus from Grahamstown (although I believe originally from Joburg). I present Lucy Kruger.

I was fortunate enough to attend the launch of her debut album 'Cut Those Strings' at Mercury a while back and got my hands on the disc. I have listened to it. A lot. I wanted to write rave reviews about it. All the time. I initially thought I'd write a proper album review, but would rather be a bit more general, as her live performance is also worth some well picked words.

Lucy Kruger is as accomplished a singer/songwriter as you're likely to hear at her tender age. She delivers the feelings encapsulated in her songs with an intense honesty that lends a vital and stripped down charm to music that is refreshingly void of pretence. What you hear (or see) is what you get. And boy, do you get an earful. It's a music based on a wistful blues and a worried alt.pop that relates to a broad set of listeners. At no point does it become overbearing, yet at no point does it become too wispy. It is a subtle and sincere assault - and a savagely smooth sonic experience all rolled into one.
There are obvious nods to influences, but none that mimic directly. If anything, she had found in her cute and coy - yet austere and audacious - delivery, a voice to call her own. A voice of exception. And a sort of breathless bravado.
The album is, in short, full of hooks, and is a wonderful testament to the ability of Schalk Joubert as a producer. Lucy's intriguing voice is given space to explore, and to take you on a journey through her sultry soundscape.
Live it's not much different - at least in levels of auspicious appeal. Watching Lucy on the stage at Mercury, with her backing band that included no less than THE Albert Frost, I was very pleasantly transported back to the day I first sat down and watched The Cure In Orange. Without the usual histrionics employed by so many lesser musos, Lucy and her band delivered a sublime set. It was very much like what Robert Smith and his cronies managed that day in France. No frills, no fuss, just fucking fantastic.

I'm sure a lot has already been said and written about Lucy Kruger. I'm sure there'll be a lot more. I'm sure that she will even have her detractors.

[Like that one review I read, which doesn't bear repeating or commenting on. Except to say that although I love the people involved with the publication, if you're content to dish it out, then my opinion shouldn't phase you in the "what goes around, comes around" category.]

However, I invite each and every one of you to make up your own mind. It is - after all - a very subjective art form. And yes, I just called Lucy Kruger's music art. She is a uniquely talented individual who will creep into your heart - if you're half way intelligent enough to allow her...

I will leave you with the definitive take on the lady of the hour. I quote one of the most influential and respected members of the Cape Town music scene for the last 20 years: "She is the future". That, sir, is the God's honest truth!


Spread The Love. All You Need Is In The Sky With Diamonds...

CAAAAAN - CAN YOU DO THE CAN CAN!

I fucking LOVE South Africa! Yesterday's run on the Promenade confirmed for the gasquillionth time that we are truly blessed to live in a beautiful place. Admittedly some are more blessed than others, but by and large the scenery is pretty good.

We're also blessed with the following:

Famed (no one ever heard of him or gives 2 shits) hip-hop/pop "star"  - the one with the worst fucking moniker in history - uses possible second hand smoke inhalation "that's why there wuzz drukks in me" as a defence in his murder trial - for which he allegedly kills 4 school children. And it still takes our judiciary 2 whole years to convict his narrow ass.

South African Airways runs at a loss for the second consecutive year after having posted healthy profit up until 2010 and expects us to accept rising fuel costs as the only reason, even after their CEO and board mysteriously all resign. Oh, and the tax payer is footing the estimated R1,25billion, allegedly.

Only a third of 10111 calls to the police emergency line are even answered - never mind reacted upon. The internet is aflood with pictures of our blobs-in-blue snoozing out their shifts.

Roughly 2% of our people (and a handful of successful sports men and women) know the entire national anthem. 15% only start singing when the European lyrics kick in. 37% think it's Mandoza's Nkalakatha after they saw a Nando's ad and the humour went miles over their heads, and the rest either don't care or have the internet and believe it to be Gangnam Style on account of its implausible popularity.

Do NOT get me started on Heyneke Meyer. Such a great surname, such an arsehole.

Also, Nkandla. 'Nuff said...

And last, but certainly not least, protests aimed at upliftment for all are merely a masquerade to go on violent rampages. Whist I empathise with the hard working lower scale of our economy who are undoubtedly struggling, the minute they burn, stone or otherwise harm their peers, public property or just innocent passers by, their credibility goes down faster than Sasha Grey in a Bakers Dozen gang bang. Also, I cannot afford a new BMW. You will not find me waltzing into a BMW dealership and beat the hell out of the salesman because he won't cut me a deal. It's just like that. How did the disenfranchised become the entitled? I think the whole world is heading there.

I need a lie down. Why do I insist on watching the news?

South Africa! You're not just a country! Urination!

I'm still not leaving. I am stubbornly going to stay here (in Cape Town, the lap of luxury, my middle income home, nice car - and try against all odds to forge a future for my music career - possibly embracing this new thing called the intrawebnets). And drink ALL the beer. And ignore traffic fines and TV licences.

Keep your eyes peeled. If you're good little boys and girls you may get a treat this afternoon. Everybody shouts on I Love Lucy...

NGDG: ET would never have gotten into that basket unless he was guaranteed a blanket.

Spread The Love. I Wish I Was A Comedian.

MET EISH JA!

I believe I have Miss Voorimaal to thank for this one.

I really pushed it this weekend! While everyone and my sister were away whooping it up at Rocking The Daisies, I was on a mission to squeeze as much life out of, well, living, as possible. It all started on Friday when some of the old gang and I finally got it together to play a 5-a-side football match. The courts are quite nice in that you don't spend half the time chasing the ball down the road or scampering down a hill to retrieve it. The only problem there is that I quite enjoyed the breather that afforded me. These death match cages offer no respite. Consequently my new football nick name is "Chalk Outline"... I preferred the old one, except I can't for the life of me remember what it was...

That was followed by the obligatory "one pint" which inevitably ended in me getting shitfaced and giggling like a little girl when I eventually came home. Thanks gents!

Saturday morning had been earmarked for a jog with the Hot Girlfriend, who had been making snide little suggestions that I was in trouble. So there we were. Stretches complete we were off. Bringing up the rear merely because I was enjoying the view, I hit the first snag and nearly collapsed in a dead possum faint. The flock of seagulls and pigeons feeding on a heap of bread left there by some right bastard had been evading my radar until I was almost upon it, at which time I took evasive action and was very suddenly roughly 20m elsewhere jogging on the road. The Hot Girlfriend managed to startle the crowded harbingers of the Devil into a mass take off which I'm almost certain was aimed solely at me. It was like being stuck in time. Slow motion poop rained from the skies as the shrill caws of demonic intent filled the air!
Somehow I managed to keep life, limb and dignity together and put the swirling cloud of featherad and beaked death behind me without sharting my pants. It got a lot more pleasant after that. Turns out I'm not the world's most useless Bruce Fordyce impersonator after all...

Then it was the much anticipated trip to the Ice Rink. I have very fond, if fuzzy, memories of ice skating with my friends in high school. To give you an approximation of how long ago that is, let's just say I got a quality education...

We were greeted by a queue that belonged at the Lottery ticket office when there's a guaranteed R30million on offer. The geniuses who organised this showcase of becoming one with the ice failed to take into consideration the fact that it was school holidays. The black cloud above my head began to solidify. Once inside, the queue for skates was even longer... The skates! Ah the skates! I'd put on super extra thick Everest expedition socks, but nothing could counteract the sheer unpleasant, unyielding and downright misshapen things I was expected to strap around my feet. Now I am a firm believer in making sure my feet are at all times well looked after/supported/pampered. It's like buying good tyres for your car. You can imagine the anguished not-so-under-my-breath complaints... And don't get me started on the stench.

Once on the ice, I decided to make the best of it and gave myself an experimental push away from the safety of the side wall. Mainly because I am male, remember being able to do this, and saw my good pal The Greek flying around like a portly Kristi Yamaguchi. The ice was hobbly! And I was surrounded by 16million children who were all exactly the same height. Crotch headbutt height. They also zigzagged like a tribe of flustered Guinea Fowl. I tried to hide my trepidation by helping the Hot Girlfriend around the rink. Then I gave Bimsi a hand as well. Finally I decided to give it a go solo and after a few false starts, surprised everyone (including myself) by staying upright and actually zooting around the rink with something resembling speedy grace. However. The minute I got a bit cocky or confident, I was sharply reminded by my acute lack of centre of gravity and that of the Universe in general precisely who was in charge. It was an exercise in humility, intense concentration and permanently dodging unpredictable little obstacles. Perhaps I should have played my computer games...

Anyway, the bunch of friends were all sitting at one corner (either taking a break or too medically challenged to be skating themselves) forming quite the enthusiastic audience. Or maybe that's just a perception built into me. I was especially aware of trying not to end up arse first in the wall or straddling a small child as I ate ice when I flitted past their scrutiny. Alas, twice I was the source of their unbridled mirth as I almost wiped out - doing a very unflattering tip toe triple trying to regain balance and composure - leaving a wake of ice chunks Sharon Stone herself would have been proud to have made. Be that as it may, I still didn't fall.
I came much closer at the other end of the rink. Me-Swifty and I were doing a lap and found - much to our delight - open ice in front of us - and we were off! Looking like graceful Olympic athletes we zooted off at a 100km/h towards the fast approaching barrier. Taking the turn like Jeremy Clarkson in a Bugatti Veyron, I spun out of control into a series of magnificently manic pirouettes. Three to be exact, each accompanied by more wildly flailing arms than the last. It was like Don Quixote on ice. Only I didn't get lanced in a gallant effort at chivalry. Instead I think Me-Swifty wet herself laughing so hard.

Still. I didn't fall.

Anyway, after a quick pint with the birthday girl and the rest of the entourage, we stopped off at Canal Walk on the way to our next engagement. By the time we got half way to the store we were aiming for I had to stop. My right knee (and both sets of calves, hamstrings, and groin and thigh muscles) simply refused any further perambulation. Any attempt to persuade them otherwise resulted in a pain so indescribable it would be futile to try. So hobbling in agony, we made it home and promptly decided not to join our friends and their magical forest night hike missions. Ah, the joys of age...

Sunday morning's first sprint to the bathroom was not a pleasant experience. Unfortunately my bedridden convalescence was short lived, as we had plans to take Rose Thorn and Commander Conker wine tasting. First stop (after some minor make up repair) was Eagle's Nest. I like it there. It offers a nice secluded experience and makes you feel like you're the only people there. Mainly because, more often than not, you are. Then off to Groot Constantia. You must always remember to drive past the first wine tasting place where the busload of camera toting, tube-sock-n-sandal-wearing tourists are dropped off. Or that's what I've always maintained anyway. When we got to the far end of the Estate, the first thing a clearly excited Rose Thorn did was steer me towards an area where she had spotted an owl. The thing was the size of an Andes Condor and was luckily roosting. I used her as a shield.
They were renovating inside the tasting area, so this - although perfectly pleasant - was not quite as spectacular as usual a Groot Constantia experience. We even got told to shut up. As opposed to Eagle's Nest, where only I got told to shut up.

Next we stopped at Raith Gourmet for a spot of lunch. A highly recommended experience if you can deal with the property envy driving though that part of the world. And finally, off to my favourite, Steenberg. We found a comfortable arrangement of couches and got settled in. Slightly erratic weather had caused them to close off the outside area, but that didn't matter. I love it there, inside or out. Having purchased our obligatory wines, we decided to bugger off home and were duly convinced to stay for dinner. Thanks Commander Conker - those gourmet burgers were radical!

I'm glad to report that I have regained the ability to walk. Tomorrow I shall test the legs out as I take on The Promenade again. When WILL this boep go, I wonder...?

Anyway, what a wonderful weekend was had. Apparently Rocking The Daisies was quite rad as well...
I think I'll save myself for Ramfest.

NGDG: Bed time is a fluid concept. The more fluid, the more fluid the concept.

Spread The Love. And Keep The Wine Flowing. Tonight - We Doom!

iRREVERENCE

That's like reverence, but made out of Apples. Which reminds me of cider. Which reminds me of sex.

Just one of those things, I suppose... it wriggles and tickles.

So how is everyone on this glorious Friday afternoon? Cape Town has been reduced to a tumbleweed ghost town. Only a handful of old bags were observed shuffling across an intersection in Sea Point, holding up traffic and mumbling something that ended in "deary" under startling barnetts of fresh blue rinse...

Everyone, you see, has hauled ass on over to Darling and Rocking The Daisies. It's like the first week after Summer when all the Gauteng holiday makers go back home to the Big Smog. You can almost hear a city breathe a sigh of relief and put its feet up - looking forward to a well deserved break and a long cool alcoholic drink on a sunny balcony.

Alas, this is not the fate which awaits me. I am on my way to engage in a 5-a-side football game. It's like squash, only the court is bigger. If I don't die of cardiac arrest, I am hoping to be at least lucid enough to realise I'm having a good time. I'm so looking forward to it I could just shit. Or is it the inevitable ice cold beer afterwards?

I'll tell you what's going to be ice cold. And wet. And unpleasant. My pants after tomorrow's ice skating. You know you've reached a certain age when all you friends organise parties behind your back solely to suit the needs of their offspring, even if the birthday is for one of the adults. Problem is, that while they're all going to be sitting in the stands discussing school fees or pooh or whatever, I'm going to be flinging this gangley body around the ice on razor sharp blades of glory among those very offspring. I have a reputation already. I once panned my one friend's 5 year old daughter right on the pip with a hard lemon. This resulted in much recrimination and crying and the odd tearful glare from the inadvertent victim. I don't suppose being "record breaking" drunk at the time (with consequent poor aim) is any sort of mitigating factor...

Then - when I once again wake up in a cocoon of muscular agony - it's off to the sprawling wine lands of Constantia to enjoy a day of boozing in the sun with Rose Thorn, Commander Conquer, and the long suffering Hot Girlfriend. Can't wait! I'm particularly looking forward to the lunch I have planned at Raith. If you haven't yet, you wouldn't know, would you.

That sounds just long enough for me to have successfully forgotten the woes of a working life, only to be thrust nose-first back into the melee of whatever it is I do for a living. Next week I will also have some nifty reviews about some terrific artists, some old, some new, some buggered, some who have an element of the blues in their music. There.

NGDG: Heavy eyebrows are very (I'm sorry to use this ghastly phrase) "on trend" this season. Nevertheless. Maggie Siff. Unfortunate name, lass,

Spread The Love. Unless Confronted By A Hippy. They Want Everything For Free.

HEAD IN THE CLOUDS

Once upon a time there was a blogger. He was a real motherblogger. Then one day he took a step back, realised his life was devoid of anything interesting whatsoever, and developed a serious case of writer's block. But he was acutely aware of the demands put on him by his adoring public and decided not to let his 13 and a half friends down. So, pluckily, he rolled up his sleeves and with a grimace of grim determination, he tugged at the taps of the drivel spout.

Let's start at the very beginning. According to Julie Andrews it's a very good place to start.

Or perhaps we can just rewind to Tuesday evening.

The mountain beckoned. Resisting the almost overwhelming temptation to pack a block of cheese in a red neckerchief and tie it to the end of a stick, I ventured on over to the abode of Commander Conker and Rose Thorn. Rose Thorn opened the little gate at the end of the little garden path for me looking as if she's just beaten Usain Bolt at the 200m, Mohamed Ali in the ring, and Gary Kasparov at chess. Kind of like speed-no-holds-barred-tiddly-winks, another sports that has mystified pundits by not taking off. Apparently she had just endured 24 whole minutes of exercise...

Anyway, dogs in tow, Commander Conker and I took to the slopes for a sedate saunter. Let me tell you, those fucking uphills are no joke! It was all very reminiscent of the time the mountain broke my virginity. Looking rather more like Rose Thorn than something less red and flustered, we managed to make it back, finish the dog kennel, wheel it around a city block (as you do...), drink some wine, have dinner, pop in at the Winchester and kill someone by the name of Philip.

I ate patty pans.

Getting home, I must have broken all land speed records in my zombie lurch for the bar fridge before I settled in to watch the football.
The life, eh!

And then yesterday... wait for it... huge doses of fuck all happened. Unless you count work. Which I don't.

So here we are, at the point in the story where the plot converges on something meaningful or a dramatic twist presents itself. Intrigued? So am I? What happens now?

So, the only plans I have coming up are the repeat performance of the mountain jogwalk, ice skating on Saturday (yes, I said ice skating, I'm considering selling tickets or putting a video up on a charge site...) and then if there's anything left at all, wine tasting at all the farms in Constantia on Sunday. Be sure to stay tuned. The easiest way, I find, to keep that up, is to frequent bars on Edward Street where the average patron has a variety of pop up collars on at the same time, a bakkie with ironic blue plastic scrotum on towbar and yellow CY licence plate made from tin, considers "breker" a compliment and puts his "FL" on whiff a wrench. Those okes will keep you tuned all night.

And speaking of wankers, I can't wait to see everyone in the country raise the minimum wage by something like 500%. I may even get a raise. Like my friend who works at Playboy. Oh, no wait. That's a rise...

NGDG: It's best to leave work when you start nodding off at the computer. Chances are you'll fall asleep at the wheel of your car and be spared a repeat ordeal the next day.

Spread The Love. And Other Four Letter Words.

WHAT I DID ON MY VACATION.

By me.

Do you remember those retarded essays your primary school teacher used to insist that you wrote after having some time off from school? Mainly because they were either too lazy or hungover from their own break to think of anything more original?

Anyway, this is my "adult" version. Not in the same way as if Jesse Jane had said the same thing, mind.

What is it about blondes in the adult entertainment industry whose initials are JJ?

Well now. Let's see. What did I get up to?

There was the mother in law's birthday. I cooked. So quite naturally that was an unrivalled success.

Then there was the "National Braam Day - My What An Enormous Sausage" celebration of our cultural heritage. Instead of going to an art gallery and standing back whilst peering at a portrait you don't understand (finger over pursed lips - vital!) or attending a ballet or the grande ol' opera, or even jumping from one foot to the other in loin cloths brandishing a weapon that can't stop bullets, we as a people have chosen to adopt searing raw flesh on an open fire as our cultural past time of national identity. And thank goodness, I say! We braaied pretty much half of the local supermarket chain's butchery, drank the equivalent of an entire seaside village in Mexico at Spring Break, and spent the majority of the day getting lightly stewed in a jacuzzi. The next morning my hangover and I were greeted by the Nascar Speedway that is the traffic flow between fucking Tableau Voi and the city. It's so bad, there's a dude selling coffee at the lights at Bayside Centre. The less I say about that journey and the hick town from whence it "flowed" the better...

I also managed to install the last of the kitchen cabinets, but we know from experience that that is never the end of it. Oh no! Stay tuned for tales of electrocution and a lot of unnecessary grunting.

And I even managed, between all of that and a lot of lying in bed, to resurrect my football career. I haven't been able to walk in 4 days. But luckily I'm going for a bit of a tour of the mountain this evening with Commander Conker. Joy! After we put the finishing touches to The Doghouse, another of my DIY projects from my holiday. They say that idle hands are the devil's playground. No wonder so many metal guitarists are such lazy wankers.

And then there was the music... But that's for another post, as both Lucy Kruger and Th'DamnedCrows deserve entire stories of their own. All I'm saying is "Wow!" Look out for them. And check these here very pages for an upcoming report on some mad, enthralling, jaw-dropping, ass-wigglin', dronk nights of musical magic!

Sorry it's all so brief, said the underwear sales lady.

NGDG: Ramfest, you done good. If I believed anything I actually wanted and the intensity of that desire had any bearing on manifest reality, I'd think you had me in mind all along.

Spread The Love. Yoh! I'm In The Mood For Some Football!