No, seriously!
I'll tell you why.
Saturday, after a long and exasperating trip out to the beautiful Stellenbosch Winelands, the intrepid duo of Tarty Farty Tequila Party and yours truly reached our destination - a farm called Delvera, with its hundred and one activities. We were very fortunate that they were still willing to take us out on a ride (we'd booked the horseback wine tasting) and so - after some umming and aahing - we were introduced to our mighty steeds. Well, mine was mighty. A beautiful grey named Troy (no one thought my joke asking if he made a hollow sound when I kicked him was funny) who was soon to pick up the nickname Stompy, we became fast friends instantly. Tarty hopped aboard "Alpi", a rather more restless creature of apparent race horse thoroughbred descent, although at mere pony dimensions, I wasn't so sure. But you know what they say, the smaller the package, the more full of shit it is. Our gracious guide took us out for a very sedate stroll through some spectacularly picturesque vineyards. The views stretching out over the Stellenbosch valley were breathtaking, and teasing Tarty by breaking into the occasional trot and watching her keep her excitable mount in check was great fun as well. The shrieking did nothing to calm her horse's frayed spirits either.
Getting back, we traded our meagre wine tasting experience in for a cold beer and buggered off up the road to Delheim, to a far more promising afternoon of quality quaffage. The Hidden Cellar is a real treat and so is the great selection of wines there, definitely worth a return visit, with more cash, as I only bought one of the mid priced bottles. But damn! That Grand Reserve was unbe-fucking-lievable!
Following a chilled Saturday evening, I got out of bed on Sunday morning for the obligatory trot down the passage to the bathroom. Halfway, my consciousness must have taken over to a point that allowed my brain to send the following message to my vocal chords: "Ow! Fuck me! My arse! It's broken!" as I slumped, mid-stride, into an agonising half waddle, clutching at my bruised nethers.
Oh, but that's not the end of the fun dear reader. Sunday was a celebration. Sunday was a sort of pre-Christmas lunch at the homestead with the folks and the sister and the Brother-In-Awe (seeing as the perennial travellers will once again be on some safari trek around the country on actual Christmas day). I had been looking forward to this immensely, especially as I wasn't driving and planned on taking full advantage of my old man's fully stocked bar fridge. Alas, this was not to be. I spent the day sullenly cringing on the couch, nursing a glass of water and some dry crackers. At first I thought "equine flu" but then I came to realise it was nothing more than a common and garden tummy bug. Which proceeded to lay me out for 3 days. I just got back to work. I am not a happy camper when I'm ill. Less so when the proverbial insult is added to the proverbial injury in the bottom department...
At least I had an excuse to watch the Manchester Derby. Fuck me! When did a game of football become a world war? Nine Manchester City fans are being charged with a range of crimes. Incidentally none of which include being City fans. Blood was shed, although I daresay that Rio will survive and may even have had his features slightly improved. But the hooliganism (well, the little bit we saw) was still disgraceful. And both defences were as bad as some of the refereeing - at least that was fairly evenly spread and only near the end of the encounter. Poor Mancini. He must feel like Lucifer's nursery school minder.
Anyway, on we plod in our remorseless trudge towards the festive season. I still have some shopping to do. Wish me luck. At least the thronging hordes are safe. Just thrust your hands in your pockets, whistle a vaguely unsettling ominous tune, stare vacantly into the middle distance without focussing on the human cattle traffic around you, and you'd be amazed how they part as you saunter on through - unscathed...
In other news. I have a ticket to go and watch Eddie Izzard in June next year. Thanks to the better half of the DSW. Do you?
NGDG: Next time I eat beetroot, I'll write a reminder on my knee so the following day I don't panic and think I'm bleeding internally.
Spread The Love. This Tea Tastes Like Pooh.
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