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!
I still haven't been to the cricket. Most boring game ever. But perhaps you would be kind enough to prove me wrong. Let me know when ...
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