NUDE NUNS WITH BIG GUNS

Nun shall pass...

That's actually the real title of a movie I own. Unbelievable? Believe it.

Fuck it, I'm bored today. Work is bumbling along, as it does, and I'm doing the things I have to do. It's just that I have definitely had enough of this week and the feeling has manifested itself in a lacklustre vacuum of motivation second to none. To add insult to injury, I am often driven to reading the news in cases such as this, which only serves to make me MOERIG on top of the MOEG and MOEDELOOS.

Perhaps a bit of fresh air would work. Sitting here smelling my own farts is probably not conducive to fervent productivity. Some days I miss smoking, simply because it afforded me the opportunity to get up from behind the computer screen and rest my eyes on something other than the woes of the world, the atrocities committed by a sick society, and the abuse of power and accepted grammar standards.

I think a nap is the answer. Wouldn't that be awesome. I could seriously go for one of those forced lie downs we were so loathe to accede to in kindergarten. I want to go back to my childhood. I like the concept of having no responsibility. I like how you didn't care if your Mom dressed you in something ridiculous. I like how you could get on with other kids without having any agenda other than simple sincere compatibility. Much like a dog is in a state of permanent joy at the prospect of food, a walk or the opportunity to hump something, kids too have little or no frame of reference. They don't know what deliciously decadent experiences await them in the future, and therefore don't miss them. They don't actively seek out more and more extreme pleasures - they simply enjoy the sugar rush they're currently on. Of course adolescence changes everything and it becomes a full time occupation using every underhanded trick in the book in an attempt to divest oneself of ones virginity, but I remember some good time then as well...

Anyway, back to life, back to reality...

Looking forward to next weekend and the annual celebration of heat, live music, kids with bad taste, and 3 days of caked dirt that is Ramfest! With any luck the Brother-In-Awe will re-enact that now-famous rendition of Die Antwoord after he'd spent all night getting blitzed and dancing like a bastard to electro. My resolution this year is to not be blackout drunk all 3 days. At the price, I'd like some memories. Otherwise I may as well stay home, not wash and listen to music I actually like, all the while not getting as far as the stage and having fuckall recollection anyway. Ag, who am I trying to kid?

Oh ja, and talking about "music" that I'd just as soon miss in a hazy stupor, tomorrow night is the Skrillex concert. I try my best not to be one of the nay-sayers. Let's leave it at 'Enjoy the show' to all that are going. And thank you for relieving me of the burden of having to endure it myself. I hope you have a whale of a time.

And on that ugly note, I will take my leave. Tonight is phase 4 of 'make house presentable' so wish me luck. I may yet see my floors before the day is done.

Also, best name for a porn starlet of the day goes to Bonnie Rotten. I'm sure Google will guide your path...

NGDG: The moon looks like something you could cradle in your hands. But it would crush you. Unless you get trapped in a crater like a cowboy in the window of a dynamited spaghetti western saloon facade.

Spread The Love. Ask Bonnie.

PUTTING THE 'PROMISE' BACK IN 'PROMISCUITY'

Threesomes - all the rage these days.

I don't get how everyone looks down on people with a healthy sexual appetite. I really don't. Most of the 23 people who read this blog have parents. And these parents made it through the sexually free Sixties and Seventies, where STDs were as commonplace as LSD or pubic forests. Or maybe even the Eighties, when everyone tried their best to look as unfuckable as possible, but still got laid.

My point is this: Every generation (after the Victorian Age) was pretty much into rampant no-holds-barred sexual activity. Then why the faux-disgust with which society not only comments, but condemns those that are open about it?

I remember the so called 'sluts' in high school. I found them to be quite socially well-adjusted, nice people. But they were shunned by many who felt that they needed to show some sort of moral superiority. And trust me, those poor girls have NOTHING on the depravity that's rife these days. Almost makes me jealous of today's youth. Although I'd rather have the education over the adolescent experience any day.

Today we're practically force fed porn. Not complaining. The (m)oral compass guiding the content of our entertainment is even wonkier than Jack Sparrow's. Not complaining. Moms are buying books like 'How To Give A Blowjob He'll Never Forget'. Once again. Not complaining. Although the 'Fifty Shades of Grey' phenomenon is clearly more an indictment on our tastes and not necessarily a barometer for sexual deviance. Whatever. The point I'm so laboriously trying to make is the following:

Given our basic acceptance of all things sexual, and even our desire to partake in as much of it as we can, and very often to indulge in the more sinister or sub/dom side of it all, why do we as a society still frown upon it all as some sort of sinful act? Or feel the need to publicly denounce it. Is it because we like the idea of it being "naughty" or "behind closed doors"? Is that how we get our kicks? Does some level of Puritan mystery carry with it added appeal? All of these are valid, I suppose. I just find it ultimately hypocritical to coo over pictures of cute babies right after kakking someone out for saying how much they enjoy getting the living shit fucked out of them. Newsflash, it isn't the stork delivery system.

Also, when you're in that one excruciatingly divine moment of ecstasy and you're trying your befuddled best to remember not to scream out your ex's name, do you give a crap about anything over than the exquisite rapture searing through your every nerve? Where's your morality then? Or is it reserved for PTA meetings only? I think it's only an issue when we think others in society can judge us that we go along with the rather archaic notion of promiscuity being an entirely bad social thing.

Don't get me wrong, I am not advocating it. Especially considering the severe nature of today's super viruses and the dire consequences of unprotected sex. Far from it. I am merely pointing out that there are more people around that enjoy it, and that actively seek it out, than most people are prepared to admit. And those who are honest enough not to try and hide their raging libidos under some faux-frumpy façade should be lauded and not ostracised. Good for you if you have the appetite of a rabid rabbit. And don't look down on, or question the virtue of, those who break the boundaries. How do you think those 3 different positions you so enjoy came about in the first place? Huh? Not from the missionaries, I can tell you that.

So go on! Go and do some exploring. Try something different. Be daring. Try publicly "declaring your love for one another". Or at least own up to being a disgusting little maggot who will try anything. It's liberating. Society sochmiety.

NGDG: Evidently I'm easy to forget. Seems Merc has a harder time forgetting to send their shuttle service for the bimbo they dropped off en route with me this morning however. Next time I'll remember sprinkle my decolletage with rose water and ag dankie meneer.

Spread The Love. Try Something New And Disgusting. You Know You'll Enjoy It.

BLOWJOB - YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG

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SICK. SICK. SICK.

Can't believe no one has meme'd this pic yet...

We're a lynch mob of bloodthirsty villagers baying for justice... "She's a witch! Burn her!" Like the famous Monty Python skit in the movie The Quest For The Holy Grail, South Africa, THIS IS YOU!!!
Mob rules! Incited to riot. Looting and pillaging over the fibre optic cables. Picking clean the bones of those not yet even duly tried. And in the course of your daily little lives losing sight of the big picture. The important things. And discarding the plight of the faceless millions who suffer without the obtrusive glare of the cameras in their faces. Ah hell, even those that did. How quickly you've hopped from the travesty of Anene Booysen to something juicier.

And with that, I will refrain from saying any more. The access to news we enjoy as a result of The Information Age has rendered our lives obsolete and we are forced to live vicariously through the trials (literally) and tribulations of those that either excel or repulse. Happy now?

It's Friday, people! And you know what that means, dontcha! IRREVERENCE in bucket loads. Unfortunately I have nothing particularly irreverent for right now, but if you allow me to sit here in my tidy whiteys long enough I'm sure something will come up. If you'd like, you may now picture this glorious apparition in your mind's eye.

I'm going away for the weekend. With the Hot Girlfriend. Leaving all you rotten rotters to fend for yourselves. We're going to enjoy the seclusion of a weekend away and the celebration of a wedding. I dig going to weddings, even more so the weddings of other people. And if I'm a "Plus One" so much the better. I can engage in small talk without touching on real life issues that pervade the conversations you share with those close to you. No concerns, no pressure. You can even make up a glamorous career if you really want to - and believe me it's probably preferable to laboriously explaining to the uninitiated what exactly it is I do for a living. My good friend JDP used to describe my job as "surfing porn and drinking beer". Accurate in that I deal with a similar number of vaginas, I suppose. Here's an interesting fact, talking of vaginas: Chris Brown recorded a version of the classic 'Try A Little Tenderness' in 2007. Ah! The fun facts that I get to pick up on in the course of a day's work...

I hope you all enjoy your weekends. Engrossed in the saga that's woven around the tragic death of a young woman and the unfortunate/despicable actions of a fallen icon. For YOUR entertainment.

Fuck.

NGDG: First, with a razor blade, carefully remove the 'dog' sticker from your enemy's 'My Family' decal. Kidnap dog. Rehome dog with nice family (obviously - you're not a complete dick). Next, remove 'child' sticker. Do nothing ever. Win.

Diabolical genius.

Spread The Love. Irreverently, If She'll Allow You...

FOR BETTER OR FOR WORSE...

Are we going up or going down?

The state of our nation. Fuck... I've never been pro-State as it is, but somehow I feel that all of us are sitting with fingers jammed up our collective arses. I wish there was more that I could do. Ranting online from my virtual soapbox for your entertainment is one thing, but getting out there and actively attempting to make a difference is another altogether. I suppose we do what we can in our communities, no matter how seemingly insignificant. What we CAN do, is try and educate the person next to us. Even if that person seems to be the high-brow intellectual liberal we all strive to be - I guarantee you everyone has something they do wrong. No such thing as the Utopian individual.

The problem in this country - and indeed the indigenous culture - is that there is an alarming lack of respect for life. The life of another is considered less significant than the comfort or desperation of the self. Add to that the fact that our patriarchal society still treats women as property and you have a very short fuse in a very large tinder box. And don't even try and argue the contrary. The majority of people in this country still employ some version or other of the lebola system. Even upper-middle class friends of mine indulge in the  tradition. That and polygamy. So wives can be bought. Ergo, you own them. Now I am of course not saying that the majority of respectable citizens who chose to follow tradition are all wife-beating homicidal bastards, but you can see how views are formed, or at least allowed to continue in the "wrong" direction, depending on application.

Then you get the added incentive of urban subculture, where we are not only encouraged to walk around with our pants around our ankles and are subjected to second rate auto-tuned shit, but the over-riding message is one of "bitches and money" as the measure of a person's standing in society, often obtained through violence. I'm not one to point to metal turning our youth into church burning Satanists, or movies inspiring the local town arsonist to start perfecting his craft, but there has got to be some validity to the affect mainstream media has on impressionable minds. I give you Chris Brown, for instance. Still at large, he enjoys a lifestyle our MTV-fed idiot-youth can only dream of, despite his well documented woman beating. And the dumb bitch is still with him. Yes, yes, I know I shouldn't call her that - it makes me no less guilty than anyone else, but for fuck's sake, if someone I know got moered like that I'd expect them to blaze a cartoon shaped hole in the wall, not defend the doos in court.

And then, get this, we look to sport teams or individuals to "heal our land". The premise is flawed because we only ever set aside our differences when a team wins (which isn't always the case) and then the delusion is only fleeting. Verwoerd must have been rubbish at ball sports. At least we all have one common enemy on whom to lay all the blame for the ills of our fair land, eh...

Why go off like this so early in the morning, you ask? I read an article that very succinctly points out everything I am currently having a problem with. No, not THAT kind of problem...

Perhaps this afternoon things will look better...

Ha!

And by the way - to each and every person who is sitting there with the sudden compulsion to scribble their own stupid, ill-informed or even vaguely racist comment in the vain hope of coming across as educated or exasperated - PLEASE DON'T.

NGDG: More people know my name than I know theirs. Sadly I'm like the opposite of a spy.

Spread The Love. In REAL Life.

FUCK BREATH OF THE YEAR

Some days I wish I lived in The Matrix. I'd take the appropriate pill and erase Keanu Reeves from my conscience for starters...
Also, and I cannot make this clear enough, THIS DOOS. I even had to make up a whole new category for him to win. Anything more conventional would have a certain yellow-clad cyclist competing for it.

Ladies and gentlemen, FUCK BREATH OF THE YEAR...

And this against the stiff competition of every single living porn star, every single sexually active human being and every member of the South African Parliament. I give you the provocative thoughts of one Femi Fani. He's a Nigerian of some description. No, not the authentic type, from the homelands of Sea Point or Parklands. He's some or other big wig in this magical kingdom - far, far away - known as 'Nigeria'. Personally I think someone is trying to pull the Chewbacca hat over our eyes. I for one, don't believe in these far off mystery lands for a second. (Perhaps I should apply for American citizenship...)

Anyway, it was inevitable that someone, somewhere would rise above the mindless dross and the sensationalist shit that has befouled the internet since Valentines Day. Mr Perky Pants over here (my friend TSAR called him something far too rude to repeat) went and gone and done it. Please read what this misogynistic motherfucker had to say regarding the whole Oscar thing. And it is a thing. I have been trying my damnedest to avoid the subject. Mainly because the entire world is so enthralled by it. I really couldn't care less. It's clogging up the internet and that's not what the internet is for. I mean really now! Does anyone remember how frustrating it was having to fast forward VHS porn to the exciting bits?

Now that I think about it though, it may very well be a spoof. The name alone is too much. Femi Fani... Is that the whole lot or do we have to infer a surname like "Padd"?

Clean up on isle 3!

On to less disgusting topics, then?

Don't mind if I do. Last night I finally managed to move all the junk from my passage to other parts of the house. Until, of course, I get fed up with the junk in the kitchen and the dining room, then it all gets stashed in the passage again. It doesn't do to clutter the bathroom, see...
When I'd done all that back breaking labour, I was joined by The Dean and we started planning out next Tutus 'n' Tiaras charity walk/run for animal welfare. Slight tweaks to the format, but basically it's still a fun day out dressed to attract attention and an awesome way to raise finds for our beneficiary of choice, as always, The Emma Animal Rescue Society. So keep late April open and keep your peepers peeled for more info. There will be regular updates and information here.

Anyway, more recording tonight. That is after the Brother-In-Awe and I go and help view a property for purchase. Not for us, for friends that need to have their identities kept secret, lest people figure out they're about to become destitute.

NGDG: Today doesn't have a To-do list.

Spread The Love. Just Not If It's One Of Jezebels' Daughters.

TIPS FOR A BETTER LIFE

We all yearn to fit in. I recommend KY, but failing that, below you'll find a few useful tips which you can apply to your everyday existence that will help you become a better person, more accepted by your peers and everyone else, and finally able to throw away that Sangoma's business card. You know, the one that promises the enlarged penis (for him and her), the winning Lottery numbers, the gorgeous partner with the insatiable sexual appetite to go along with their astounding prowess, and getting rid of that pesky rash...

(In honour of a special count down, here are nine random observations...)

1. How to Rockabilly - a public cervix denouncement for everyone who resides in Cape Town. Thank you Miss Management. You're gonna need this in depth guide if you're not to stand out like too much of a sore thumb when you embrace the craze that's sweeping the Mother City and finally denounce the Biscuit Mall poseurs in favour of a more authentic sub culture experience. I jest! This is a gathering of the foremost bands in this - or any other - genre. If you like it sleazy, gritty and downright decadent, get on down to Carnival Court and try not to make an utter tit of yourself by exposing yourself as a "newbie". I'll be there, supporting my mates Th'DamnedCrows, as they flaunt their anti-establishment glaring lack of sideburns and indulge in miscellaneous other miscreant activities. 
2. Another wonderful tip in the ongoing social experiment we call life: After an acrimonious split with your partner, stymie their social progress by clicking "GOING" to any and all event to which you will inevitably both be invited. Genius!
3. Here's another handy hint that will propel you towards instant adulation from the thronging masses: How about NOT jumping on the all-too-obvious band wagons and polluting everyone's news feed with the same sensationalist bullshit and crass gallows humour (my pseudo-cousin is exempt from this one as he is actually qualified to make insightful judgements into the dark psyche of mankind. He has a fancy piece of paper AND he's a full time resident there). Try finding out some facts before regurgitating knee jerk reactions to complex social or political situations. Rob Van Vuuren, possibly the most annoying character in local comedy in his Twakkie shirt, but a brilliant talent in any other and a downright decent bloke pointed out: "When will we learn not to admire sportsmen for anything other than being good at sport?" If you'd like some context - or you just feel like catching up on what news is currently suffocating South Africans in its death grip, read this rather interesting perspective.
4. Glasses can be half full or half empty. The one you decide on will go a long way to determining the level of enjoyment you derive from your insignificant little tenure on this plane of existence. My suggestion, unless you're a serious song writer, is to ditch the all consuming negativity and accept that from time to time good shit happens. Actually, good shit happens all the time. Especially to this incontinently positive bastard. I suppose it's easier having a rosy outlook when one's derrière is inextricably linked with the container of butter. One leads to the next. You figure it out. Frowns are SO nineties, anyway. As is sitting hugging your knees and swaying back and forth in an ill advised attempt at looking introspective or interesting. Have you ever wondered why the hale 'n' hearty get more nookie than you? [*Disclaimer: it is an accepted opinion that lower life forms such as those that frequent Camps Bay bars and clubs indeed do see more action due to their dastardly pop up collars and oblivion concerning their tags as utter dickholes, but then they're fishing in their own homogeneous pond of vapid subhumans.]
5. Another helpful tip is to stop believing Oprah. Make up your own mind. "The TV never lies" is a phrase that should be used only in emergencies or when channelling Homer Simpson.
6. Channel more Homer Simpson - it's indescribably therapeutic.
7. Watch more mindless movies - and accept their inherent entertainment value without being all analytical.
8. Listen to more quality music for the opposite reasons. Or swap the movies and the music around. Your choice. I've made mine already.
9. Use the time you're stuck in traffic everyday more constructively. Keep a notebook or a recording app on your phone handy and come up with ideas, quotes, lyrics, etc. Work your brain instead of allowing mass media and social networking to dictate the evident entropy of your most useful tool.

Ok, I'm done. I could go on for some time yet, but I think I'm diluting the initial premise of this piece already by becoming all trite and shit.

A great big huge shout out to Mein Sohn on his birthday! Happy Happy Birthday!

NGDG: Three reasons why 2013 will be amazing: There's a new BMTH album out. There are rumours that Jamie T is in studio, Lars Von Trier's Nymphomaniac will release in cinemas, Iron Maiden, Slipknot and Amon Amarth will play Downlaod, a girl with an amazing body finds me hilarious... and I've forgotten the third thing.

Spread The Love. It Makes For A Better World And We Could ALL Do With A Bit Of That...

TURNING THE TABLES

And as for the rest of the weekend...

I've already reported on my magical night in the company of Fetish at Mercury. Bless their 'Little Heart'.

Which - if any of my past public appearances are any sort of barometer - inevitably meant the hangover from hell on Saturday morning. Everything turned to treacle from that moment forward. Especially considering the fact that I had to go and mow the lawns at my parents' place. In the kind of heat reserved for "mad dogs and Englishmen"...
At least I got to watch a bit of the cricket.
Then it was off to dismantle my entire home and transport the set of cupboards to TDB's house so he has something to use as storage in his hangar sized garage. Then he misplaced his keys, bringing about much optimistic-but-pointless patting of pockets and another tour of the peninsula, before we got back to his place for the intended braai and jacuzzi vibe. Well, I got into the jacuzzi and, for the most part, was fed beer after beer by the production line otherwise known as The Hot Girlfriend, Tarty Farty Tequila Party, and Me-Swifty. While TDB was doing all the braaing. Heaven DOES exist!

For some reason or other (I think TDB was attempting to convince me of the tactical merits of the Magic fantasy card game) we found ourselves locking horns in a protracted battle of wits over a chess board and many a beer. The game ended at 4:30 in the morning, with victory only going to me by the narrowest of margins. I was kakking myself for most of the game, given my proclivity for boasting about my abilities instead of shutting the fuck up.

Which in turn heralded another day of dehydrated headaches and general pain. But The Hot Girlfriend and I decide sod that and went for ice-cream. We also managed to stick in an impromptu portrait shot and an awesome game of putt-putt before we spent the night chilling in with spectacular home made pizzas and Wayne's World, wrapping up just about the most perfect weekend ever.

And now you know. You're all caught up. My life, the open book, is once again updated. Tonight the mighty Red Devils beat the crap out of a hapless Reading in the FA Cup. Pity I have to wade through a house full of  what USED to be in my cupboards and sort it all out before band practice. Fun. Perhaps I should stop and pick up some beer...

NGDG: I prefer Doomsday to Monday.

Apt...

Spread The Love. Schwing! Schwing!

AWKWARD IS BEAUTIFUL

Fetish on Friday night. Fuck me.What a show! What an evening...

In another hotly anticipated return to their old stomping ground, Fetish delighted the fans - old and new -  that packed into Mercury to be part of their ressurection. I fall into the catagory of the former, having been fortunate enough to witness their rise to awkward media sweethearts. I remember one particular evening attempting to break the laws of physics as I coerced my 1977 Escort to a speed of 160km/h as I tried to make it in time for one of their shows at the Purple Turtle after I had a gig in Stellenbosch. Drinking and driving laws weren't as sharply observed or enforced back then...

Well, to put it simply, back in the day, they were the most understated - and the most undisputedly so - brilliant band around. I know the Nudies et al were more popular (to a point), but Fetish was at the forefront of an up swell of raw, naked, emotional, and downright delicious music that engulfed the Cape Town creative conscience. It was honest and introspective. It was beautiful, not belligerent. It stretched the questions. It pressed for answers. It took on delicate subject matter in hushed, back room whispers. And provided scathing sincerity in return. Creating the troubled and often turbulent musical back drop - the band combined incisive insight with stellar song writing as the perfect launching pad on which Michelle Breeze  could let her fragile, gorgeous, and fascinating vocal style and her broken, melancholic lyrics mesmerise.

A decade on and they've recorded a new album. It's more assured. The new songs are less about the awkward angst felt by so many and more about real world issues - a natural progression if you will - considering we all draw on life's experience as the material from which to create our own art. Fetish is as honest as they always were. There's a sense of contained confidence about the music now. There's a feeling of having found some of the answers. A sense of settling into a life. An expected maturity.

I was looking forward to this show tremendously. And I am over the moon to report that they did not disappoint. Still there was the poignant purity of their earlier work, a perfect foil to the more authentic assuredness of their new stuff. Michelle was at her captivating best, entrancing, enchanting, moving the crowd with her ebbing and flowing performance. I myself had just the right amount of social lubricant to allow myself to be washed away on their tide of turbulent serenity - and guess what - I had the time of my life! Only one person could possibly have had a better evening than me - and that was Rose Thorn, whose rousing rendition of 'Leah' was graciously allowed to be heard by one and all as Michelle relinquished the mic to her for an impromptu sing-along from the crowd. I can only hope that the mic, which was held dangerously close to the bellowing maw of yours truly, didn't pick up any of my off key warbling...

All in all a fantastic night. Tarty Farty Tequila Party was the ring leader in an assault on late night revelry in the Mother City along with Slappy and the clearly chuffed Rose Thorn. I have just been informed that there were even topless shenanigans in the offing... That's how you do it! The Hot Girlfriend hauled my stumbling, grinning ass off and put me - gratefully - to bed. Catch the rest of the South African tour - it may be your last chance. Durban - you lucky, lucky bastards! You get Shannon Hope on top of all this! Fuck you! I would probably - what am I saying - DEFINITELY - need clean trousers...

If... that was the last time I ever get to see Fetish, then it was a rousing, fitting send off.
If... I ever have the immense fortune of seeing them again, then they have a mammoth task if they want to improve on that indescribably wonderful experience.
If... only.
If...

NGDG: It's not a bachelor's fridge. It's an experiment in entropic minimalism.

Spread The Love. A Little Heart Goes A Long Way.

SHADE OF A GHOST... ALSO... BOOBS!

Well, well, well. Here we are on another glorious Friday afternoon. And what a weekend we have ahead of us! It's all about the magical element of truly awesome music this weekend! Yes, folks, Fetish return like the prodigal sons and daughter to Cape Town's bosom. It is a momentous occasion and I for one am seriously peeing my pant in gleeful anticipation. Rarely has a band, local or not, been such a a firm favourite of mine. And I get to see them perform in all their glory (and with a local keyboard wizard filling in for Dave, no less), I am sure I will be whisked away on a dreamlike journey as their fragile, fragmented and furious music transports me beyond the 4 walls of Mercury. Can't WAIT!

And speaking of bosoms, another of Cape Town's finest musical acts, the inimitable Mind Assault, bring you a  new song. For free! You know you want it! Only the Flapper Legion could conceive of a rocking track entitled TIETE! Bless their lecherous little hearts.

This has gone circular. Fetish's new album is called 'Little Heart' and look! You can download it here.

So, pre-show drinks at the home of Rose Thorn - check.
A designated driver in the form of one seriously Hot Girlfriend - check.
A date with a braai and a jacuzzi tomorrow - check.
Having Tarty Farty Tequila Party in attendance at all of the above - check!
Armed with TIETE for the drive home to get even MORE amped for the weekend - check!

Oh yes, I haven't even told you about the glorious Wollingtons I had last night. Let's just say it was a spectacular success. Gordon Ramsay can fuck off and so can Don Juan...

NGDG: Let's have a round of applause for people who send emails at the crack of dawn with deadlines roughly equivalent to the time you get into work. In a room with clapper-activated lights, poor wiring and methane leakage.

Spread The Love. Permanent...

RANT RANTY McRANT RANT

In the same spirit that declares that ALL days should be treated as an opportunity to lavish affection on your partner instead of waiting for one designated occasion, I hereby urge you, my erudite and kind readership, to  wear black ALL the time. Today I am wearing all black. Barring the odd humorous slogan or band design  printed on a shirt, this is usually the case. I am of course being obliquely metaphorical, but let's take an active stand against the violent sex crimes that threaten to turn our "society" into a savage mockery. Do not stand for any of it - at any level. It is my opinion (and boy, do I never seem to run out of those) that there are circumstances when taking the law into your own hands is justified. Violent (sexual or not) action against anyone is grounds for a good p**sklap, even if only to stop the crime as it's being perpetrated. I know that old adage of "An eye for en eye leaves the whole world blind", but I think that speaks more of after the fact retribution than moering some oke that's hitting his chick. Take my word for it, if I find someone fucking with my nearest and dearest, I will step in.

Ja, how did I suddenly get there?

Probably a pent up anger with all this fucking political posturing that's currently soiling our lives and blocking up our traffic in the Mother City. State Of The Nation Address, pah! Has there been one honest appraisal since the damned invention of such a thing? More like just another opportunity to placate the voting fodder with a carefully worded list of great big fibs. The opposition sees right through it. So do those of us with more than a kindergarten reading level. He may as well save himself the pain of having to read the Teleprompter (and the nausea among the rest of us watching someone so ineptly massacre a beautiful language) and just come straight out with "Free tshirt and keyring - you know where to make your cross. And, those fucking white devils! Let's all bask in the golden shower of me pissing on Madiba's sacrifice! Amandla!"

Raping the country is not a good example to your people, Prez 4 Lifebouy.

On a completely unrelated note - other than it being about how not to heal the world - please read here about a Zimbabwean kid who allegedly told Madonna to "fuck herself". It's an extremely well worded and emphatically insightful piece, and not to put too fine a point on it, since it is all direct quotes, doesn't seem too plausible coming from a 15 year old village dweller. Fucking brilliant though. Thanks Mike G.

More later when I've simmered down. In the meantime, be sure to catch L.I.Am being his snarky self and tune into Assembly Radio for Shake Sum Action at noon. Gritty grooves and tarnished tunes to get you in the weekend mood.

I'll be back...

With a happy blog post. About the important things. Like last night's amazing love fest. Like Fetish. Like TIETE! All will be revealed...

NGDG: Cash bar and it's still working hours. I call bullshit.

Spread The Love. It's Our Only Hope.

GERMAN SCHEIßE FLICKS ARE NOT ALL BAD.

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SHITTING BATS

Once again, dear gentle reader, we are but lapping at the moist ooze that is the fountain of inspiration. Gone is the gushing geyser from the loins of the muse. (Actually, now that I mention it, I could have used an entirely different picture...)

Excuse the ramblings above. It's my way of admitting that I have neglected you, my treasured few followers... my preciouses...
Friday wasn't my fault. Skipping out of the house brimful of vim and vigour, I very quickly had both my vim and all of my vigour viciously ripped out of me by a very uncooperative car battery that had finally given up the ghost and decided to retire overnight. Permanently. This facilitated a "day off". Which means I wasn't in the office. It also meant a healthy constitutional to the battery shop and back with a wallet soon to be unburdened of its bulging contents. And then the delivery bike got stuck in the gutter in front of my house. Never a dull moment, eh.

Saturday was a sad day indeed. I was forced to return a few items of retail therapy, and not because I had just discovered I couldn't afford them. The first was a jeanpant that had the near catastrophic effect on me of  turning me into a whimpering woman convinced I'd just picked up a dress size without noticing. I have NEVER struggled to glide into a pair of trousers (much less out of...) but this was something else! Picture a white carpenter's ruler trying its utmost to bend gracefully its unyielding frame into a too-tight sheath, with all the natural curvy grace of a character in the "before" part of a Kelloggs Special K commercial. Yes. That was me. The store had misprinted the size, much to my relief, I found after a lot of investigation.
The second return was a bit of a disappointment. I took my new TV back. It transpires that sales folk do not know anything about the product they're selling. The damn thing didn't do what it was supposed to - a function the salesman swore high and low that it did. I eventually had to resort to reading the manual to figure out that it didn't. And of course the store didn't have the model that does do what I want it to do, so now I get to go through the entire exciting schpiel all over again.

Saturday also revealed that braaing with a horde of UCT hippies is not what it's cracked up to be. For one, they don't braai. Or own clothes that haven't first been through the Salvation Army. Or own hairbrushes. Or, in most cases, socks. Hippies, hipsters, I can't really tell the difference. I think it has to do with the one studies art and the other one studies something else.
Sunday was spent horizontal, in preparation for an evening out eating pizza with the in-laws, which was pretty fucking cool. The Hot Girlfriend forbade me from wearing a button shirt. How cool is that!

And she did it again last night, when it was once again time for dinner out with the in-laws, only this time the whole family, sisters and "aanhangsels" included. It was the one sister's birthday. She chose a restaurant that specialised in Ethiopian cuisine, a misnomer if ever I've heard one. Only after circumnavigating an entirely closed off City Centre, and with an ever-growing pang of misgiving, we approached the restaurant and the sign "Mesopotamia" hove into view. You'd understand the lurch in my stomach if you'd ever read about my previous experience there... Luckily we veered off into a place called Addis In Cape and I had visions of everything being served in Tupperware. If only I'd been that lucky...

The waitress had the resigned air of one who has had to explain to inexperienced idiots one too many times the intricacies and etiquettes of Ethiopian food and how it is served or enjoyed. Thank goodness there were chairs (of a sort) haphazardly arranged around 2 large Lesotho Mountain Ranger Rondavel hats that turned out to be serving tables. The food - it turned out - was little heaps of whatever you ordered unceremoniously upturned on a communal sheet of something that resembled a large pancake and was made from rice flour. The addition bandage-like roll-ups of rice flour stuff served as utensils. You broke a piece off and precariously dabbed a dollop of your "main course" mouth wards. This was followed by coffee served with the obligatory frankincense burning away. I fail to understand how this could have been considered a gift for the Baby Jesus as it was the most horrifying olfactory experience ever.

Which brings us conveniently to something resembling a connection to the pic above. I won a CD hamper! Courtesy of the redoubtable Nerine Dorman, author and blogger, and my correct answer. And the fine gents of Tunes Of Dawn. They're (so far) a kind of thrashy Type O Negative and immensely enjoyable if you're a fan of that sort of thing. They also happen to have a song called 'I'm So Goth I Shit Bats'... Thank you Nerine, Carrie Clevenger and Tunes Of Dawn for the wonderful goodies! I might even write a more thorough review when I've had the chance to listen to all of it a bit more.

And tomorrow is that most hallowed of hollow Hallmark Holidays, Valentine's Day, after the patron saint of fuck-knows-what. All that has reliably been proven of his life is that he died a martyr. Which is probably a close enough indication that he had something, somewhere, somehow to do with the opposite sex...

NGDG: Vatican exit interview: "Do you believe the Universe is 6,000 years old?" asks HR. Pope: "Undoubtedly." "Well then, by my calculation, your one-month notice, starting now, will be 7.3million days." Because no one diddles the Papacy Pension Fund.

Spread The Love. Gimme Utensils...

KEEP YER SHIRT ON! FFS!

We do love a good whinge, don't we?

So Cape Town's road systems weren't built to withstand the awesome might of an army of RHCP fans descending on our fair City. Clogging up the weary arteries of the old girl on their way to the stadium, it was left to everyone else trying to get home to find alternate routes. Which very quickly turned into a fucking fiasco. 

Turning off Eastern Boulevard just before the 3-lane back-up from Searle Street all the way to the stadium, I thought I'd once again strained my luck to breaking point. Nipping in to Commander Conker's, we loaded up the dogs and made for Deer Park. Or so we thought. It took us until the sun went down just to make it around the corner and as far as the Perseverance Tavern, and then it became abundantly clear that we weren't ever going to see the mountain. The genius that I am, I suggest running the dogs on leashes back to the house, grab our wallets, and run back down for a pint - as opposed to asking the friendly owner if we could bring the pooches inside.

Sound idea in principle.

Until I find myself running behind Mr Cheerful Chops, who has a prize-winning pedigree black Staffie on a black leash - me and my white pony tail bringing up the rear with a hyper-active Jack Russell on an adorable pink leash. Like the fucking good wife! I wonder what the irate commuters thought of our happy little family unit as it hurtled along past their stationary vehicles...

And then he treated me to dinner. I still haven't figured out if that made me feel better or worse.

Be that as it may, today is a new day. We face new trials and tribulations. Most of last night's concert revellers hopefully face the day regretting having drunk as much as they did. Or struggling through a hellish day of work in this wonderful heat. Personally I can't wait to have a decent run, having missed out to a certain extent yesterday. Then it's rush home and prepare for meeting and band practice. No rest for the occasionally wicked, then, I guess. With any luck I'll even get to see some of the AFCON semifinals as well. The perpetual state of being semi-tired continues!

And with that, all the RHCP commentary dies - bar a few stragglers still insistent on letting me know that they in fact got their money's worth. Aaaaaand cue the Skrillex bashing. Or is it Metallica's turn first?

NGDG: I'd happily pay more if they'd coat the inside of the Yogisip container with Teflon.

Spread The Love. You May Not Get Another Chance.

BOG CONCERTS

Getting down to the Chollie Wollies.

It's a strange ol' day indeed. The internet is occupied with only one singular subject - the pros and cons of the Chili Peppers. Seems that for every person that's stoked over the moon to finally see their musical heroes, there is another incensed by their very existence. Whatever - they were certainly deemed an important act in my youth. That fact alone should be some form of indication as to how dated they are. I wouldn't call myself a fan, but I was briefly interested when Dave Navarro played for them. And I have a tatty old VHS copy of Suburbia, which stars a pubescent Flea, as well as 'Scar Tissue' - the awesome autobiography of one Anthony Keidis. Thankfully though, the full impact of their music passed me by rather unnoticed as I immersed myself in trying to look cool and be associated with general glumness back in the day.

But I don't begrudge them their Big Concerts put-out-to-pasture tour. The fact is they're probably going to put on a super professional show and the people are going to go buck wild. Just not my cup of tea, dear. I'm more than likely to discard my briefs in the direction of the stage for a Morrissey writhe-fest. And let it be known - to all the naysayers out there that insist that younger, more relevant, acts should rather be brought out to our shores - that Ramfest is already doing this. The fact that your taste is oh-so-unique-and-different just means you're a prick, not a connoisseur. Come back to me when the first eiderdown fluff starts sprouting in your nether regions. Only one man is allowed to be as caustic as he has been on the net about the Chili Willies, and that's L.I.Am, because he's earned the right to be Cape Town's resident Miserable Old C-word. Even although he's actually just my apprentice by virtue of age difference.

Here's a fun thing to try when they sing "Dreeeeeam Of Californicaaaaa-tion!" Sing along - at the top of your lungs - with all your friends - all together now - "Preeeeee-mature Ejaculaaaaaa-tion!" It cannot be unheard. You may thank me later. All major credit cards and most locally brewed beers are accepted!

Oh, "By The Way" the Chilis vs Die Antwoord will always be won by the Chilis. They have a song called "Zephyr", which clearly trumps the only thing Die Antwoord have based their entire career upon.

Whatever. It's got to be better than having to endure Andre Rieu. Or some of our more banal local acts, because local is not always, simply by virtue of the fact that they're from here, lekker.

And speaking of Ramfest, the wonderful people at TicketBroke don't want to take my money. Do you think the organisers of Ramfest - who are paying a sizable commission for a very important service - would be enamoured with that? I don't think so. I wouldn't be.

So instead of going to sit a million miles away from a band I don't really want to see, or fight with a virtual ticketing machine that refuses to work, I have chosen physical torture. Yes, you guessed it! Tonight Commander Conker takes me - kicking and screaming - up my beloved mountain. Well until the air is permanently expunged from my collapsed lungs and I cry the rest of the hellish journey. And Mr Cheerful Chops is having a good chuckle at my expense.

Besides, I have my own failed music career over which to fret. (Ha! I'm an alleged guitarist - see what I did there?) I don't have time for the has-beens and the never-will-bes. I'm trying to be a somebody, damnit!

Here's someone who's most certainly a somebody.

NGDG: When BMTH tour I'll upload one hundred blurry photos. Seems to be the done thing.

Spread The Love. "Preeeeee-mature Ejaculaaaaaa-tion!"

THIS LITTLE PIGGY IS TOO OLD FOR THIS SHIT.

Jeesh, where to even begin!

Friday I enjoyed after work drinks with the Tableau Vixen and then had to haul ass home and back to get my footie gear - it was good to be back on the park. After that I had The Hot Girlfriend and our AWESOME home made dinner date. I'm REALLY getting spoiled these days, I tell you!

Saturday morning, after some scampering around to buy enough beer, etc, it was time to park the car out of harm's way and get on the Party Bus to Metal4Africa's Summerfest '13. The bus was already a monstrous party in itself. We made new friends, we had pink stuff poured down our throats straight from the bottle. We loudly made fun of everyone until they gave up and laughed along with us.

Eventually we got to Stellenbosch and the venue. People were milling around, still getting into party mode, while we were already 16 sheets to the wind. DJ Egghead was providing the perfect "mood music" outside and everyone hugged everyone else like we were a huge tribe of long lost friends.

Now at this point I must make mention of the fact that I am currently nursing a severely damaged left elbow - it's missing most of its skin - and a pretty banged up right forearm. This suggests a rather one-sided collision with something a little more immovable than my scrawny self. My money's on the floor. Let's put it to you another way. From here on in it's a large collage of fuzzy, hazy and happy memories of watching bands and causing havoc. On the evidence, I had the time of my life. I can't tell you exactly how, who, where or when, but I can tell you I had fucking truckloads of fun. Apparently. Later on my good friend, and Rocky's chick, found me unconscious somewhere in the vicinity of the dancefloor. I hope I had a grin on my face and I at least remembered to take my hand out my pants. The moral of the story is that although I'd love to give you a blow by blow account of the bands that performed, I can't. Collectively, they saw to it that I was having way too good a time to be lucid enough to remember any of it. But from what I have heard from just about everyone else that was there, it was as expected, another stellar night of amazing performances, shaking the metal community out of its natural lethargy and kicking a few arses. Wonderful. Well done indeed once again to Braidy Bunch - you know the event was a roaring success when you can't remember how unforgettable it was!

Ah, Sunday morning. And a vague feeling of having gone a few rounds in a large industrial tumble dryer - that old familiar feeling! Treated to a breakfast of champions and a cursory inspection of new war wounds. Then it was a very necessary nap and getting ready for the hordes to descend for a nice quiet braai. Which turned out to be anything but quiet, although not much physical strain was involved. Unless you count the earth shaking when THAT LAUGH presented itself again.

So here I sit. I feel like absolute shit. Reminiscent of Danny Glover sitting on a toilet in which a bomb has been concealed before a be-mulletted Mel Gibson yanks him full body into a bath and the immortal words "I'm too old for this shit" are uttered with a wry smile and pants around your ankles...

NGDG: I'm starting a new chapter today. The unnumbered nouveau roman style however, where intertextuality, self referentiality, and formulistic subversions make it all but impossible to define what difference it makes.

Spread The Love. And The Milk Thistle.

MORE FUN THAN A GANG BANG!

Yay! Yay! It's Friday!

And you know what that means, my dear readers... Sleeping in late after late nights out, soaking up all the wonderful vibes our beloved Cape Town has to offer. Right now it's a stinking hot, gorgeous summer day in the Mother(less) City and we're about to embark on a weekend stuffed to full of metal it could re-align magnetic North. Yes ladies and gentlegerms, Metal4Africa's annual celebration of metal mayhem is upon us. Summerfest '13 is here! Can you feel it! The Beat At Africa's Feat! (Only this version is more double bass and blast beats...)

Featuring a stellar line up of some of the most exciting metal acts around, not only from this country, but even from beyond our borders! I'll be transported there, as usual, on the Party Bus, which is a total riot. Imagine a vehicle filled with drunk hooligans and my friends and I sitting at the back playing "ringleader, ringleader". Fun guaranteed!

On to the important business. The show starts off with My Dark Fugue (cool fucking name) and Messiah Complex, who I have heard some great things about. Following them, if you're still not completely damaged and/or too drunk to stand up, you get hit by Moment Of Clarity, before the kindly gentlemen of Bulletscript rearrange your orifii with a crushing cocktail of groovalicious greatness.

Once you're recovered and spent some time applying rudimentary bandages to your arse, the onslaught continues with Botswana's own Overthrust (really looking forward to this show) and the pure punishing power of Warinsane.

And as if that wasn't enough to allow you to die smiling in a dishevelled heap of bludgeoned bliss, THEN, only THEN do we get to the official headliners. Fuck me! Infanteria are using their auspicious event to launch their long awaited debut album on the night - brace yourself! I sincerely doubt I will be able to see out of my face by then, but I really hope I do, because co-headliners Suiderbees are NOT to be missed with their orchestral infused death metal - always a showstopper! Closing off proceedings will be Sadistic Dementia. I have no idea what they're all about, but knowing the strict criteria for getting onto this prestigious stage, I am sure they are pure quality. I believe the gorgeous girls of Black Orchid Burlesque will also be in attendance, wowing the audience with their audacious art.

Outdoor entertainment will be provided by the ever present DJ Egg (on-my-face) Head and a massive merchandise stall courtesy of Subterania Music will have you wishing you'd studied harder at school...

Oh yes, and the million crazed metalheads having the time of their lives!

And that's not all folks! Tonight Sindulgence, Zombies Ate My Girlfriend and the ever-lovable scamps of ING storm the ramparts of Mercury Live! There you go! Amazing, quality metal at one of the most, if not THE most prestigious live venues in Cape Town. What more could you possibly ask for? Show your support and pave the way for me to have my own launch at Mercury! Besides, wouldn't it be nice to see your favourite metal darlings presented in all their splendour - with a professional lighting set up second to none and a truly wonderful sound rig and engineers?

See you all around the fringes of the mosh pit - with only one eye open!

NGDG: That apple was so big, if it was a peach you could call it James.

Spread The Love. \m/ \m/