Friday, April 26, 2013


Pic by Not-So-Lil' Wayne

It's Friday. I'm hungover. I wish I could report that I had actual 'Whiplash!' from last night's gig, but the painful truth is that I'm just an old fart. I sat in the stands and soaked up the wonderful atmosphere, instead of going bonkers with the rest of the reprobates.

Not that I wasn't enjoying myself. Let's start at the beginning, but it'll have to remain a short report. I need my rest.

Getting picked up and chauffeured to and from a Metallica gig is an outstanding experience. It frees you to have a motherfucker of a hangover the next day. Thanks to the inimitable Rose Thorn and Jasmyn, the little white Hyundai. We congregated at The Starlight Diner and entered an unspoken competition to see who could wait for their beer the longest. Only after being threatened with grievous bodily harm did our waiter make any sort of attempt to bring me one after a thousand year wait. And then he contrived to fuck the bill up. Fuck The Starlight Diner.

Even though that would normally put a small damper on proceedings, we joined the queue to enter the Velodrome in high spirits and The Hot Girlfriend, Chocolaty and Weird Al chattering away like songbirds. The lines were mercifully quick and very efficiently handled. Once inside, it transpired that it was actually a surprise party for me!
I knew EVERYBODY! My head was spinning trying to keep up saying hi to everyone. It was awesome! I am even more impressed that I remembered to introduce The Hot Girlfriend every time. (I know I did, because I would have been hit behind the head if I'd forgotten.)
What a wonderful surprise!

Then there was VCK, who played their hearts out but suffered from the typical opening band muffled sound. They got a loud enough cheer, though.

Then, after some more schmoozing and a pint or 2, we took our seats for the main event. Fucking hell! The 'Tallica boys blasted onto the stage and into our eardrums with 'Creeping Death' and never let up. We were treated to one of the most consummately professional shows these shores have ever seen. James snarled his way through hit after classic hit, while Kirk shredded away and Lars looked eager, but tiring fast. The receding hairline splashed up all over the massive screen backdrop was also a dead give away. At least they looked like they were having fun with it. It was a lesson in controlled musical aggression and perfectly executed interaction with the crowd. The set list was STELLAR! Typically, all the pop up collars went utterly berserk when 'Enter Sandman' ended the official part of the show off. Then the obligatory encore left us breathless and baying for more, grinning in unison and mentally high fiving everyone else in the arena.
No wonder some of my friends came back for a second night. Apparently having a new arsehole torn for oneself is the logical progression after having one's mind blown.

Then. The venue ran out of beer. Let me just put this into perspective for you. The vast majority of people attending this concert were male, lager lout, metalheads. And it was, in the grand scheme of things, woefully under attended. The organisers and their sponsors have been putting on shows like this forever, yet they STILL . RAN . OUT . OF . BEER . A more shameful set of circumstances cannot be fathomed.

Still, not even the rancid cider I was forced to endure instead could ruin my high. What a night! What a band! What a concert! What a fucking unbelievable EXPERIENCE!

Thank you Metallica! Please don't judge us on our poor ticket buying skills. We have a beautiful mountain.

Please come back!

NGDG: After watching that labioplasty surgeon on Doctors trim pastrami from a roll, I think I'll just stick to beer.

Spread The Love. The Memory Remains...

Thursday, April 25, 2013


Beer and boobs. That pretty much where the similarities end...

So Tarty brings up an interesting point. She accused me of being a metalhead. Or at least resembling one. I'm not affronted. Or surprised. But let me take this opportunity to decisively separate myself from the herd.

  1. Metalheads have long hair (mostly, until life forces them to relinquish their locks). Ok, you got me there.
  2. Metalheads listen to only metal. There are obviously the odd exceptions, but I guaran-damn-tee you they are in the minority. It is virtually exclusive. This is not the case with li' ol' me.
  3. I actually hate most of what would be classified as traditional metal. I've always hated the likes of Iron Maiden and Megadeth. I'll probably get donnered tonight for that admission.
  4. As in any genre of music, it is really only the top 1 or 2 percent that are worth my attention and/or adoration. This precludes me from the generalisation of "metalhead", a group who would  choose to listen to the music based on genre rather than quality. (I sense another beating coming...)
  5. Metalheads are quite comfy with the "us against them" stigma. In my case, the world has never wronged me and I have very rarely, and only in ill-advised fits of adolescent naivety, ever taunted it by pandering to the notion of being an outcast. Fuck that, everyone loves me, I'm not misunderstood and I loved school because I'm clever and enjoy sports and socialising.
  6. I will NEVER cut the name of a band into my arm, although I will admit to being willing to dish out a stern frown if you have anything kak to say about Paradise Lost.
  7. I flat-the-fuck-out-refuse to see anything remotely attractive in Viking/War/Folk/Battle metal. Hail! Hail! Fail! Chainmail! (Here's where I get ostracised by most of my friends... Don't get me wrong, to each his own. I just don't like it.)

The list could go on forever...

Thinking I'm a metalhead is easy. 99% of my friends are and, given my love affair with heavier-than-lead guitars, this is not an absurd conclusion. But given the choice to listen to Anthrax or The Cure, guess which one will win every single time. But as I said, most of the people with whom I associate are real, genuine, metalheads, and a finer group of people you are not likely to meet. Just being part of the True Believers camping at Ramfest was a privilege in itself. Fucking hairy, stinky, crazy bastards!

So, with the ominous prospect of all my mates giving me the leery eye tonight, I'm off to go and watch the mighty Metallica rock The Velodrome. I may even put my "horns" in the air or headbang a little. Don't judge me. I can be whatever I set my mind to. My mommy always told me...

NGDG: Like a tit, I've gone and ordered two copies of The Blackout's new album. Who has something excellent to swap for it? I'd give it away but I'm selfish.

Spread The Love. We Will Tolerate!

Wednesday, April 24, 2013


Scary, innit?

Guys, can you imagine actually stepping out in public looking like this utter tool?
Girls, would you go down on THIS? Let alone take him home to dear ol' papa?

I expect to see a lot of these characters flouncing around like Captain Pants (far, far away from their stronghold at the Biscuit Mall) at the Metallica shows tonight and tomorrow. Clearly they misunderstood "iconic" for "ironic". Dickholes.

Well, other than last night's wunder-drubbing - Barcelona got mauled by Bayern Munich - there is precious little to report. Everyone's excited about the concert. I'm going running. The Hot Girlfriend is still hot. Looking forward to making music with my cohorts this evening. Life is indeed still peachy.

Unless of course you count the numerous times a day I am driven to the verge of homicidal mania at work. It's that time of the year again. Luckily the cool part of my job far outweighs the few times I am unfortunate enough to have to deal with the imbeciles of this world.

And speaking of all things awesomely amazing and totally incredible. If you haven't already, check out Shannon Hope as she continues her whirlwind tour of Old London Town. Dates here. And if you have, well, I don't need to tell you, and you're probably going again...

And since I have nothing further to add to your well-being, enlightenment, or general enjoyment of life, this is where I say cheers and bugger off. I have important things like recycling and picking up curtains to do. In a car. With a big engine. Which doesn't in the least resemble a penny-farthing or a fixie. In clothes that don't elicit spontaneous projectile vomiting. And I wear socks inside my shoes. Don't get me started on the unique and ground-breaking idea each and every single hipster had at the same time to wear the exact same type of hat...

I know... I know... Hipster bashing IS the new hipsterism. Pffft. Fuck it! They fucking annoy me to distraction.
I imagine this is what my poor old-fashioned father felt like when I came home as an adolescent goth/punk.

NGDG: [*I've been saving this one...] So many kids with bad eyesight. It's like the optometrist's waiting room. With beer. And the awesome The Kooks.

Spread The Love. Fashion is Thankfully Fleeting.

Tuesday, April 23, 2013


Bow chikka wow...

Panties are like conspiracy theories. A cover up.

Westerners are so quick to judge other cultures. As soon as we don't understand something we condemn it. And then attach the blame for all the woes of the world on that besmirched entity. Although I disagree in the most vehement terms with flogging rape victims and forcing women to dress like post boxes, it is inconceivable that it can be automatically concluded that any attack on the Unaated States of 'Murica is by default a Muslim fuelled act of terrorism. The whole fucking world hates you, you ignorant bastards! Stop fucking your cousin for long enough to consider all the possible angles. It is - after all - from such gems of the small screen such as CSI that we are made aware of the need to find evidence to support an arrest. Motivation being one of the factors, I'd have bombed your greedy warmongering arses a long time ago.

If I wasn't such an advocate of peaceful coexistence and all... That's the only problem. If you're cool with humanity, you have to accept the mouth breathers as well. Utopia will never exist as long as there is a Southern Drawl and a penchant for incest.

For instance, perhaps it's perfectly acceptable to practice cannibalism in Paraguay. Who fucking cares? Last night the English Premiere League title was returned to its rightful home, Old Trafford. Whatever opinion the naysayers have, my response is to close my eyes, stick out my tongue and stick my fingers in my ears. 33 years is a long time to call oneself a supporter. I guarantee that when the fans of our opposition "chose sides" those sides were on top...

Anyway, onto the real reason I write these terrible, convoluted tales. Besides the obvious opportunity to rant from the virtual soapbox that the internet has provided all of us to abuse. It is - of course - to keep you up to date, informed, and jealous of my awesome life.


Friday, The Hot Girlfriend and I - after making a slight detour to Noddy's Toyland in Pinelands to pick Jean Pant up - made our way to a little town called Botrivier. Most people bypass it altogether as it is merely where one turns off on the way to Hermanus. Typically, Tarty Farty Tequila Party got herself invited to be a judge at the Barrels and Beards Harvest Festival and to do a review on the entire area. This included a stay at the Overstrand version of the Taj Mahal. She was allowed to bring friends. I love being her friend. Although I am considering changing her online nick to Tarty the Intrepid Traveller. Or TIT. Anyway, we got there after some hair raising moments in which we discovered that my car's lights need adjusting. Downwards. ONTO the road surface. It's amazing what you don't realise driving around in well lit suburbia.

The fire was already going and Tarty and Slappy, who'd arrived earlier, were already in full swing. Much wine, some champagne, and some massive steaks later, it was a real shrieking good time around the table. We carried on til the wee hours, after which Slappy continued her own private party in the indoor pool and jacuzzi.
The next morning was greeted with some animosity from The Hot Girlfriend, but she bravely joined me on an awesome outride and didn't complain TOO much. One of the best rides I've had in recent times and an absolute pleasure of a horse.
After cleaning off sweaty horse smell, it was mega-brekkie time and then wine tasting. I mentioned before that I know the wine maker and his wife - she popped in to say hi before we went and accosted the poor girl attending the tasting. Jean Pant and I purchased some wine and then we all retired back to the Villa. More braaing, more boozing and after some time enjoying a boozy sunset, somehow we contrived to break the jacuzzi. Tarty was out judging beards and schmoozing with the local farmers and was most upset with us when we couldn't get it to work again.
Sunday morning was more or less a write off. Except for the planet sized rack of ribs I had for lunch at a quaint little restaurant called the Shuntin' Shed.

Unsurpassed views, unsurpassed luxury and unsurpassed company. That's how you SHOULD spend weekends! And only 90km away. We should do this more often. Oh wait! We do this kind of shit all the time. See, I told you the point was to make you all jealous.

Anyway, a great time was had by all.

Last night, after a surprisingly successful run to Clifton and back, an equally surprising dinner was conjured up, and the original Doom Band had a great evening making music. Oh, and did I mention Manchester United won the English Premiere League with a few games to spare! Glory! Glory Man United! Fuck all the naysayers.

NGDG: I rented a German comedy in a moment of irony. Now I'm watching a bullshit American romcom starring an actress with a German name. I really should pay more attention to things.

Spread The Love. 'Murica, That Means You Too!

Monday, April 22, 2013


Look at the piggy, piggy in the mirror...

It's a bit busy here today. Isn't it always like that when you've just returned from Paradise? And the trip home always seems twice as long as well...
Except in this case it was. You know how guinea fowl act when there is oncoming traffic? Their sentries conscientiously scout the horizon for approaching death, and then when the timing is just right, they make a manic run for it and that's all she wrote. Lethal but effective way of ensuring the flock never gets too big to handle. Interesting fact: the local human population living around the N2 in a sprawling metropolis of informal dwellings have the same approach to road crossing. The numerous pedestrian bridges were apparently a massive waste of tax payer's money, since it is clearly preferable to taunt the gods and get your weekend kicks by dodging intermittent streams of certain metallic death coming at you at an average of 140km/h.

Don't get me wrong, I believe in the sanctity of life above all else. I am simply baffled how simple laziness is higher on the agenda than, say, NOT getting mangled by 2tons of high speed fatality. And I have on numerous occasions very nearly parted company with my own mortality on that stretch of road as a last minute swerve to avoid hitting these bastards can make for quite the adrenaline surge and Tourettes attack.

One such "tarentaal" was unfortunately not as lucky as the close shave incidents I've managed to avoid. I am sure that he or she left behind loved ones and I am not attempting to dehumanised the situation or place any lesser value on his or her life. It's what happened afterwards that had me befuck.

The million kilometre traffic back up from the R300 to Sir Lowry's Pass, however, is. As Jeremy Clarkson once lamented, why do they have to close a lane for hours on end? Instead of moving the car/person/accident out of the way as soon as possible? After what seemed like hours sitting in first (luckily I had The Hot Girlfriend and Anathema for company) we eventually crawled past the scene. 4 traffic cones are an incredibly powerful force. One vacant looking traffic official staring at the crawling procession and another taking notes a bit further on as 2 cars' worth of people remonstrated. And one body bag. Surely there can't be so much forensic evidence that a body that is already covered or bagged cannot be moved, as the cars already had been, OFF the fucking road. No, all we got in the way of an explanation was a belligerent, dimly lit expression of "I don't give a fuck".

Anyway, all of that notwithstanding, I had one of the most marvellous weekends of my life. But for a full report on the fun and frivolity, you'll have to tune in tomorrow, sports fans. Too much to remember and write about - you wouldn't want to get only half the story, now would you? Suffice it to say, I have neither the energy nor the fully functional cognitive function to remember all the delightful details. Watch this space.

NGDG: Tomorrow is my last Monday at the office, aka. Salt Mine, Snake Pit, AIDS Ward. I'm happier than an Asian kid in a Samsung advert.

Spread The Love. Luis Suarez... Hiccies. You're Doing 'Em Wrong.

Friday, April 19, 2013


LordDoom goes to band practice.

Yay, yay! It's Friday. Tarty Farty Tequila Party is already swanning about like the colonialist she is in Bot River, doing entertainment reconnoitering for us before we arrive. With any luck she's managed to convince the local brass section to herald our arrival this evening with some proper pomp and fanfare. That would be nice.

Yes folks, we're off to pretend we're royalty for a weekend. There will be wine. Oh yes, there will be wine. There will be fine dining. There will be lazing in the jacuzzi. There will be roaring log fires. There will be braaing (I just bought rump steaks thicker than a Nokia 5110). There will be much adventure, guffawage and larking about. Also, I believe there is a view.

But that's not all. Get this. Yesterday, as I'm bragging to one of my oldest and best mates about the luxury package courtesy of Tarty, it transpires the lady who is looking after us the weekend is his sister. She's practically family of mine. Oh, and did I mention she's married to the wine maker? This weekend just got a whole lot more interesting... The fact that Jean Pant is somewhat of a wine connoisseur is just an added bonus.

Anyway, so there I was, at work this morning, minding my own business on Faeceboobs, when a bloodcurdling yell wakes me from my quiet social reverie. I spent the next few hours walking around the Gardens Centre while the boss got stitched up. Fun times, I tell you.

We're almost there, people. The air is an intoxicating medley of anticipation, excitement, potential, Friday afternoon cocktails, the weekend and my very feint body odour. (Think Kevin Klein in 'A Fish Called Wanda'.) But don't be fooled! In fact, be very, very cautious. Look left, look right, then look left again. LordDoom is mobile. Don't stare directly when you see a large, gloomy, black-clad metal head with long hair and an even longer beard standing in line to buy chrome spinners at your local Midas. In fact, leave immediately! Then go directly home and ask yourself what the fuck you were doing in a Midas in the first place...

Anyway. Enjoy the living fuck out of your weekend. I know I will. All you Londoners! Be sure to catch the stupendous Shannon Hope as she transforms your town into the Music Mecca of the world!

NGDG: We apologise for this technical error. We will resume normal transmission as soon as our lackey technician has figured out what he done gone and fucked up.

That wasn't Neal, for those of you who are currently peering at your screens wondering why the bottom has fallen from your world...

Spread The Love. Apparently Milkshake Works. But You Have To Be In A Yard?


All our metal icons.

Yes, Never Never Land. Not the Peter Pan Land. Instead, a place most whinging haters think exists - a place where everything is done exclusively for them. All of the bands that they think are cool magically sprout an uncontrollable affinity for the country of THEIR origin and can't help themselves - they build a conveyor belt that brings them all through this area, eager and willing to play for free to 23 people who can't afford entrance at a free-entrance night at Gandalfs.

Yes, I know I said I wasn't going, but the look on the Hot Girlfriend's face last night when I surprised her with tickets was priceless...
Of course I'm going to go and subject myself to a group of octogenarian hillbillies (and a short narcissist tub-thumper) as they promise to, um what was it now again... "Kick mah fuckin' ass!"

And now for the rest of this piece, which I wrote the other day, but for the sake of the surprise, couldn't publish...

The root of the entire debacle can squarely be laid at the feet of those people who have decided that 'Tallica are over the hill. Everything stems from the fact that not enough tickets were sold to warrant the show being staged at the Cape Town Stadium. Was it because of 'Lulu'? Was it because the South African public grows weary of the blustering buffoons that run Big Concerts? I don't think you can blame either. Metallica - like any other collection of individuals - will grow older with time and become less and less relevant to the teen angst set that proliferates our dank underground clubs. Also, Big Concerts have done something to salvage the situation, given the obvious knock they took when all but the least discerning metalheads failed to part with their cash - effectively embarrassing the local "scene" and driving yet another nail into the coffin of "less and less bands are going to be tempted to visit our shores".

I'm not asking you to be grateful for the scraps of the global entertainment juggernaut. Nor am I asking you to convert to mindless pop pap, since at least Rihanna is on the way and it can be argued she's a world class something. What you might want to consider is moving to a territory that frequently does get extreme metal bands on tour. Be prepared to give up the nice weather and the "no consequences for traffic violations" lifestyle, though. Alternately you are at liberty to try luring Behemoth or Immortal here yourself. Go on, your connections at your local pub will help you stage a kick ass brutal show, I'm sure.

And that covers the venue change. Let me address the opening band issue. I am by profession a part of, and by necessity, a commentator on, the SA music scene. More particularly, I have been involved in the Cape Town underground underbelly mix of extreme and not so extreme music for a very long time. More than 2 decades if memory serves. In my not so humble, but honest opinion (picture me standing with one hand on my heart and one on my dick) there have been perhaps one or 2 acts that are, or were, professional or successful enough to deserve an opening slot for Metallica. Sure, it would have been an awesome opportunity, but let's face it, if you're given such, you had better not make one mistake in front of all your potential new adoring fans. And I'm not talking about missing a note here and there. I know plenty of bands who are tighter than the proverbial duck's arse, I'm talking about putting on a flawless show of immense intensity, where every single aspect works like clockwork. How many bands in Cape Town (authentically metal or not) can claim that prowess? NEVER having sound issues on their own gear. NEVER allowing influences "beyond their control" to cancel or postpone a show. Don't get me started on the intrinsic ability to write a decent tune. Or keep that up for years. I think the dilution of standards - served to us like the one cup to the two girls by the internet - has rendered most of today's musicians impervious to their own flatulence. Are you REALLY good enough to open for Metallica? I can think of 2 Cape Town bands. I mentioned Sabretooth yesterday. And Mind Assault, who are - simply put - too heavy for the slot. Not to mention the clear and present danger of catching an eyeful of cock flapping about in the event they get carried away.

And just because I can, and it's Friday, and that means a little slice of irreverence is obligatory, I'd like you all to enjoy this absolute gem of a video...

More later. I just wanted to get that off my chest. Said the one girl to the other. Over a cup.

Spread The Love. Love, She's A Maniac.

Thursday, April 18, 2013


What happened next...?

Guess who is going away for the weekend. No, that's not an open invitation to nick the contents of my home, South Africa. Not very ubuntu of you, especially now, since it's been discovered that our very own Buthulezi is in fact a dapper looking Ray Charles. See, the fame doesn't stop with Morgan Freeman...

Yes, me. I'm going away. And not because you wished so vehemently in your prayers either. The Hot Girlfriend and I are joining Tarty Farty Tequila Party and others (including Jean Pant and Slappy) on one of her radical work adventures. She has to document how much fun we have and how utterly delightful the establishment is, then write about it so that other people will feel compelled to visit the place and hand over all of their money. My friends are good people.

This weekend we will find ourselves enveloped in the bosom of luxury, nestled in a small town's wine estate, sharing a Villa which boasts 4 en-suite suites (sweet!), a swimming pool outside, a heated indoor pool, a jacuzzi, a fire place, a braai, and free towels and coffee. I'm quite looking forward to it.
As an added bonus, there is horse riding and wine tasting on site. It's a good thing the horse riding is at sparrow fart, because I plan on getting stuck into the wine right after breakfast! Then Tarty is off to go ogle potential life partners hidden behind masks of facial hair. The rest of us will probably take in the sunset from the jacuzzi.
Sunday promises to be just as decadent - we're going to indulge in a very famous roast lunch. Apparently the roast is prepared in a pizza oven over night. I might have to up the running regularity.

This week can't end fast enough...

But first I have to endure the harrowing ordeal that is dinner with The Better Half Of The DSW and my Brother-In-Awe. The Dutchies are visiting and are already gatvol of the "pass to the left hand side" joke. So I got invited to dinner. Can't wait - it's always a culinary extravaganza.

And then one more day of work. Luckily, Fridays in Cape Town aren't taken as seriously as elsewhere in our lovely country. Although they do seem to be interminable, even if you work hard in order to speed up time.

In the meantime, why don't you go and make your own mind up about our local talent, seeing as there is currently so much debate raging. More raging than constructive debate, mind you. Here is a short list of things that are currently worthwhile sinking your teeth into:

  1. We Are A Conduit performing 'The Sniper & Goliath' at Mercury.
  2. Lucy Kruger performing 'Shudder' with Andre Leo somewhere in the Karoo. (This is guaranteed goose bump stuff right here!)
  3. Then, if you feel like some dynamite in a small package, check out The Dollfins 'In My Head'.
  4. And just because I feel like it, here is Th'DamnedCrows doing what they do best. Check out 'Blue Eyed Devil', also at Mercury.

Did you see what I did there?

I included some rock-a-billy. Now I have all sorts of cred.


NGDG: Perhaps I had a bit too much to drink but, once again, my car proves itself roadblock-proof. Fuck them. And their law.

Spread The Love. You Can Do It, Nicky!

Wednesday, April 17, 2013


Semen and blood. Tasteful.

So - as you astute bunch have no doubt already heard - they've just announced the opening acts for the Metallica shows coming up. I myself have little or no interest in the matter anymore, as I chose to get a refund on my ticket when I was forced to pay in owing to the venue change. Nothing histrionic about it, simply not impressed with the whole thing. I've seen them already and they will remain one of my all time favourite bands, but the love affair is fading.

Anyway, back to the announcement. Much to the obvious chagrin of some of the more qualified of our local authentic metal acts, the Bellville slot was awarded to Van Coke Kartel. There is much debate about why a band with no metal credentials is afforded such an obvious honour.

First of all, Metallica hasn't been a "metal" band since their foray into hard rock, inspired by the ever more "no more marbles" approach of Bob Rock, the man who has both the Black Album and The Cult's 'Sonic Temple' on his illustrious CV. A brief return to form, some would argue, happened with Death Magnetic, but all hope was finally extinguished when 'Lulu' dropped out of their collectively non-operational sphincters. So why pair them with a band that in all likelihood is going to deliver a set of far more "brutal" or intense music. There is no doubt that the 'Tallica boys have both intensity and power in oodles, but this does not a "metal" band make. By today's more extreme standards at any rate...

Secondly, and in a kind of sinister twist that makes the relocation issue even more intriguing, Van Coke Kartel are Bellville's favourite sons. They could probably fill the Velodrome a few times over with their own fans from around the way. And make no mistake, those boys rock like bastards. And very well fucking done to them. My only gripe is that I believe Sabretooth would have complimented the line up handsomely and they are certainly more "metal" but not "brutal" or "extreme" enough to be excluded from consideration.

Thirdly, safe is and, especially in this case, will always be the path chosen by the corporate side of the music industry. The track record speaks for itself. So, to each and every one of my mates in bands that tried their ill-advised luck and spammed the balls off my wall on the off chance that the organisers and powers that be recognised the commercial value of extreme music, thanks and better luck next time.

Now I'm going to fetch my hole-in-the-bottom box of popcorn and watch as the inevitable deluge of outrage pours forth all over my feed. If I get the opportunity to interview them, I'll make a point of asking them if they had any say in choosing an opening act, but I think we all know the answer.

It's bad enough that hard-working, talented, passionate musicians have been reduced to online buskers, begging for votes so they can have a stab at making a living.

Sad, but true...

NGDG: She adored you, he told me, why do you think she was always coming upstairs to talk to you? "The usual reason, I guess: boredom."

Spread The Love. Go Watch Some Local Metal As Well Sometime.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013


The world has once again been plunged into uproar and righteous indignation. The internet is abuzz with stories of the Boston Marathon bombing, in which a handful of people were tragically killed and many more injured. Countered by the inevitable stories highlighting the plight of victims of America's so-called 'War On Terror' and the obvious conspiracy theories, it is indeed a sad day. For humanity.

Here is a summation, for those of you too fucking thick to have noticed.
  1. America is the world's bully and anyone who doesn't believe that is a stupid c**t who deserves to remain ignorant.
  2. Circus animals are trained using cruel and inhumane methods and any and all animals in captivity (unless specifically for rehabilitation or to avoid complete extinction) is a kak idea.
  3. "Every body knows... the poor get poor, the rich get rich" - Reed.
  4. The entire world is full of bastard institutions who exist only to extract the last drop of value out of you and to infuriate you in the process.
And here is a different type of summation.
  1. Posting positive messages on inspiring backgrounds turns you into the Dalai Lama and you will have great sex with a gorgeous person forever and ever.
  2. Posting funny pictures with hilarious quotes that everyone has already posted makes you The One True Barry Hilton and you will have great sex with a gorgeous person forever and ever.
  3. Posting sardonic barbs against religion makes you the world's leading authority on how to be cool and you will have great sex with a gorgeous person forever and ever.
  4. Posting pictures of cats will make your penis grow bigger or your waistline slim down until you're a super model that the whole world wants to invite to swish soirees and you will have great sex with a gorgeous person forever and ever.
  5. Other people in the world - with a keen focus on the ones in your direct vicinity - are excruciatingly aware of the weather conditions you are experiencing.
  6. Begging for votes to win "Best Photograph", "Hottest Ass", "OMG My Band Is The Besterestest" or sharing pictures of products automatically guarantees results and you will always be admired and the postman will bring large bags of goodies on a daily basis... And you will have great sex with a gorgeous person forever and ever.
  7. As long as you're able to convey the message without too much unfortunate misunderstanding, the age old application of grammar and spelling has become superfluous.
  8. Making lists complaining about the inequities of the world makes one a giant turd-burglar. It's too late for me, save yourself.

People! Stop aiding my belief in my incalculable superiority!

NGDG: I had the sensation of someone watching me so I put down my book and see a cat in the room. I don't have a cat. I let it out into the garden although it probably came in through the internet.

Spread The Love... And You MIGHT Have Great Sex With A Gorgeous Person Forever And Ever.

Friday, April 12, 2013


The only thing between me and a terminal diet of Brussel Sprouts...

Since I am now firmly in the business of punting gigs, and everyone is rightfully taking me seriously, tonight's EARKILLER show at Mercury promises to be one for the record books. The line up oozes superbly sleazy rock 'n' fucking roll hedonism. Kicking off proceedings, Cape Town scene darlings Th'DamnedCrows will stomp and strut their way through their set of southern swamp-a-billy wreck 'n' roll, with no small amount of frivolous fun and smug smut. Following in their steamy wake will be the deliciously decadent Dollfins - a loosely rolled combination of Joan Jett, The Cramps and Nico. Imagine a broody, diminutive, female Iggy and you've pretty much nailed it. With some serious fuck-you attitude and sass. Thank God someone is still all about that... The third act for the night is The Stella's. Don't look at me like that. THEY put the fucking apostrophe in the wrong place, not me. I don't know anything about them, but let's see if they "got their groove back"... I should probably go and check out their YouTube stuff - get an idea what we're in for.

I'll be the aloof dick at the bar in the back, discussing aspects of everyone's performance and wringing out the last vestige of minor celebrity from a past life. Anything for a pint, eh...

And now that we've gotten business out of the way, I'm sure you're probably all desperate to know how my attempts at Vegan cooking went last night. Splendidly, thank you ever so very much. Everyone dutifully made appreciative noises and choked declarations of how delicious it was. In truth, one and a half table spoons of "mild" curry paste instead of the recommended dosage of one, resulted in bleeding eyes and feverish nightmares. Well, now I know...

And the chicken strips I put into the dish as soon as Dead Elvis had been served made it very non-vegan. I don't think I have the stomach for a diet devoid of flesh. No thank you. What do you do with yourself at a braai? Stand inside and play Salad Supervisor?

AND. Have you heard about Cake'n'Cunnilingus Day? Sunday is fun day, folks! Who said you can't have your cake and eat it?

Anyway, since this is my second steaming pile of excrement offering of the day, this is where we part as friends. My ol' Mum always said "Leave 'em wanting more". Bright lady.

NGDG: A fortnight left of work. Apt. One part dank stony edifice. One part darkness. All dreadful.

Spread The Love. Marie Antoinette Style.


We interrupt normal programming to bring you this breaking news. This post will not contain any expletives or rants about shitty government officials.
Ah shit!

Ahhh shit!!!

London! You are being placed under Defcon 5! Remember - do not panic! (Ha! Hang the DJ!) Please file out in an orderly fashion.

Remember the scenes when the Beatles first landed in 'Murica?
Well, London, prepare yourselves for screaming, swooning, tearful mayhem, as SHANNON HOPE decends on your defenceless little island. She is touring. For you. So that you may share in the unimaginable eargasms of her musical majesty. I've done this before. I wrote a piece explaining how I couldn't possibly write any more about how incredible an artsit she is. So you'd better go and check out the shows - you lucky, lucky buggers. Lest ye miss out on the undeniably life altering experience.

Here are the dates 'n' details.

And THIS is why I bother.

More to follow later, when I'm feeling suitably saucy. My good man...

NGDG: Kurt Cobain died 19 years ago today [5 April]. How old do you feel now?

Spread The Love. Oh Boy...

Thursday, April 11, 2013


"Black Spell Of Destruction" she wrote.

Tonight I cook my first Vegan meal. Impressed? Don't be. The minute it's done, I'm lobbing in shit loads of strips of chicken. Only one of the dinner guests is Vegan. Why should the rest of us have to suffer? Plants sustain life on our planet. Plants provide us with shelter. They rejuvenate and protect. All animals ever did for us was taste good and provide us with fleeting companionship before ripping our hearts out by passing on. I think the Vegans have it wrong...

Anyway, before I start something here on the interweblands (I don't like cats, so there's very little else on the Internet to do), let us move on. Today I am having one of those fucking days. Work is making me grind my fucking teeth and I'm on the verge of doing someone grievous bodily harm. It has so far taken all my will and strength to refrain from punching or throttling this particular individual.

But then this chap came along. There's really not much you can keep welled up or in a tight little ball of fury when you're almost wetting your pants from sheer, unrelenting, gut-busting laughter. Or as the kids would say "LOL"... I have now watched it a few times and each time it gets funnier. And each time my bladder is under increasingly severe pressure. Not only that, but LordDoom used his photoshop skillz to create a laughably scary caricature combining Burzum's Varg Vikernes with our very own Prez 4 Lifebouy, the (very un) honourable Jacob Zuma...

We're calling it a Burzuma.

See above if you don't believe me.

Half pining for the fjords, half burying our beautiful country in a fetid sceptic tank of shame.

Unfortunately I am going to have to cut it short for today. The little muscles under my eye are starting to twitch and I'm fighting to maintain control of all the other muscles - especially those involved in kicking the shit out of annoying motherfuckers that won't leave me alone.

NGDG: Snoop Dogg's change of name to Snoop Lion reminds me of that old joke, grown up, deciding to adopt a more mature moniker: Boy Clive.

Spread The Love. Save The Defenceless Plants!

Wednesday, April 10, 2013


Morrissey said it best when he intoned "Most people keep their brains between their legs".
I have no idea whether or not the "piece" in the picture above used that as a reference, or if there is someone else out there as astute as our man Morrissey, but it doesn't matter. It serves a purpose. Most people do, in fact, rely on their genitals to come to any sort of conclusion.

That would explain my drastic slump from academic greatness at age 15. My poor Mum was devastated. Then I went a step further and after studying for a decade, did something completely different. Some days I sit and daydream that I could be a professional beer taster or mattress tester. I've always wanted to make my own wine, but much like the inevitable "being paid in CDs to work in a CD store" scenario, that probably wouldn't work out.

So speaking of aphrodisiacs, I see another species of rhino has just been declared extinct. Congratulations, mankind! You rotting, festering carcass of worthless fucking carbon, bile and maggots. Keep killing off our wildlife, keep torturing our animals, keep believing your outmoded and archaic and cruel beliefs, keep violently abusing the innocent, keep making dubstep. Fuck you.

And for those of you that aren't complete arse hats, here is some good news. It's a beautiful day in Cape Town. The Hot Girlfriend is coming over. The Doom Band is coming over to make sweet gloomy noise again. It's been a glorious day of peace and quiet in the office - truly, bliss is being left to your own devices without anyone around. I've arrived at an almost zen-like state of calm. Then I made the mistake of staring into the soul sucking void that is the internet and all hope evaporated.

Ag never mind me. I'm merely moaning because absolutely fuck all interesting has happened to me recently. In the absence of interesting things to report on, I am forced to focus on the negative. I'm a happy-go-lucky scamp!

Or perhaps it's the way the Universe has had its natural equilibrium unceremoniously ripped out from under it like the proverbial rug. You see, Tarty Farty Tequila Party published posts on her blog. Posts! Plural. The natural balance of things is severely out of whack. That would go a long way towards explaining my relatively  boring and uninteresting offerings. But at least we'll always have Rob Zombie. Incidentally, he has a killer new video out. Inspirational stuff...

NGDG: Consumers complain that conglomerates are filling our foods with all kinds of chemicals and additives that we don't understand. Well, I just bought a health salad and, apart from what may be rice, I have no idea what half the stuff in it is.

Spread The Love. Muti So Issie.

Tuesday, April 9, 2013


Well, it's happening. Not like in the good "It's all happening..." The bad, stupid, repugnant, archaic, dumb, pointless, shit, and totally kak new Liquor By-Law in the Western Cape.

It won't affect me, but there are a billion alcoholic schmucks out there throwing faeces at all the walls in Facebookland. I sincerely do empathise with the club owners, the liquor retailers, and the restaurateurs. I myself am usually passed out by 2am, so it's all really irrelevant. Also, I much prefer to have a well stocked liquor cabinet than be caught with my pants down. Also, I don't go out as often as I used to. Age is catching up. Luckily for me, I'm like my very own fine wine...

In other news, I really need to win the lottery. Work is SO beneath me. That is why I avoid it as much as I can. But sometimes I get a day like today. Aaaargh. Need beer. Now. Luckily I still have almost 3 hours before the steel shutters come crashing down like I was trying to steal the Mona Lisa.

Did you ever play that game "What I would do if I would the Lotto"? I did. I even played the Lotto. I broke even after the first year and decided it was a childish endeavour, so I gave it up. My gambling is now restricted to a defunct Poker Night. Here, blow on this for luck, would you. Anyway, like I was saying, I used to fantasise about spending vast wealth. It's funny how it's never the same. Every time I day dream about Scrooge McDuck-huge vaults of money, I come up with novel new ways to exchange money for stuff. Once I resolved to take all my band mates on a spending spree at Bothners. One of the most frequent plans is to take my mates on an all expenses paid booze cruise. Now even that will have to be toddler friendly.

At the risk of sounding too much like the proverbial ambition-less hippie, I do not like money. I like getting rid of money like a motherfucker. Hording money seems pretty pointless when you can swap it for all the cool shit out there. The acquisition of money is also clearly not high on the agenda. If it were I'd be halfway across the world, making Mum proud and actually putting my studies to use. Alternatively, I'd be involved in something highly illegal, making tons of money and being the family black sheep. In a world where everything is measured on a risk versus reward scale, I'm glad I'm not overly avaricious. Being someone's prison bitch is  not worth it. I've heard...

Other things to spend imaginary money on:

  1. Audi S3.
  2. Big mansion with recording studio, jacuzzi and live music stage.
  3. All expenses paid tour for My Dying Bride, Paradise Lost and The Cure to come and play for me personally.
  4. A white horse with a horn grafted onto its forehead, so I can fuck with people.
  5. A never ending supply of Carling Black Label and Johnny Walker Blue Label.
  6. A trip to New Zealand.
  7. A company that makes skin-colour, bicep-shaped water-wings. Choose your own tattoo print. Total cash cow.
  8. A Brian Setzer Gretch with mother-of-pearl inlays.
  9. A 1975 Ibanez Concorde acoustic.
  10. A buy-back deal for Dave Lombardo.
  11. A time machine so I can listen to 'White Light From The Mouth Of Infinity' and 'Icon' for the first times again.

Anyway, the entire world is either paying tribute to, or spitting vitriol at the legacy of, The Iron Lady, old Maggie Thatcher. Dear old doddering aunt she ain't, but no longer among the living she now is. It is in her honour that I give you this little punk gem, from an old tape I had in high school.

And now for the truly scary news. Tarty Farty Tequila Party is putting together a femme fatale group of renegade ladies to challenge at the altar of a new Pub Quiz that's hitting Town. It's at Gourmet Boerie. Her heartfelt invitation to potential members of the fairer sex included referring to the whole deal as a sausage fest. I know...

Anyway, that's pretty much all I have for today. Things to do, etc.

NGDG: Rest In Peace, Margeret Thatcher. I loved your work in Sophie's Choice.

Spread The Love. "I'm Gonna Meryl Streep The Fuck Out Of This Tomorrow, You Watch."

Monday, April 8, 2013


What a weekend. I've gone a week without The Hot Girlfriend now and, in the immortal words of Freddie Mercury "I'm going slightly mad..." Although in hindsight, perhaps quoting Freddie isn't the wisest thing to do given the context. I hate it when she's studying.

Although I did put the me time to good use. I have now successfully assembled all the Lego I have. Well, the sets for which I still own plans. Unfortunately, as can be expected, there are a few small pieces missing, leaving a few spacecraft/fire engines without vital lights, etc. Also, some of the parts are broken, but in general it all works pretty well. I was also left with a small collection of pieces that are now considered "left over". These are from a few very old sets for which I have no building instruction, and I can't remember what they were in the first place. So I winged it and made a helicopter and a big fuck off SUV. They are quite possibly the ugliest creations on Earth. Scarily so.

I did venture out on Saturday. A whole collection of awesome metal bands played a stellar show at a local (seemingly decommissioned) R&B club. It was very interesting to see how the other half lives. On the plus side, I could discern the actual floor tile colour, which was a Playground-esque chequered black and white arrangement. On the downside, over priced and understocked beer was a bit of a bummer. My compliments to the organiser. Liquid Abyss, whilst apparently not a huge money spinner, was a laudable success. Also, I got drunk in some great company, to some great tunes and performances. Well done indeed!

Well, I say "got" drunk. What I actually mean is "completed the task". B Of The Bottom picked me up and along with a mate's cousin, went to Constantia for pre-drinks. The combination of Arsenal on the telly, My Dying Bride on the stereo, and some fancy cognac were just enough for me to handle witnessing The Bigness put on his trousers. Long story. Great fun.

And tonight is the Manchester Derby. Purely for bragging rights, since the title is in the proverbial bag. Although my lack of DSTv could be a little obstacle. And I certainly don't feel like going out in this dreary weather. Speaking of... I still haven't carried on with my running yet. It's that time of year, when any excuse will do. Know what I mean? I can't possibly go out when it's a little iffy outside. Can you imagine - I would catch my death!
Besides, I decided that I need some extra motivation in the form of an mp3 player strapped to my person. And I haven't gotten around to buying one yet.

There is nothing else. For some strange reason there is nothing in the news that is worth bitching over. And very little extraordinary happened on which to comment. Unless you count me fixing the bath's plumbing and buying a whole bunch of compost. And some new guitar picks.

NGDG: My first Gautrain experience. Verdict: desolate. Murders will happen here.

Spread The Love. See Above.

Friday, April 5, 2013


Comic Con SA turned out to be a disappointment.

Yay! yay! It's Friday. My 3 day work week is almost at an end and I can feel the warm relief engulfing me like a trickle of happy pee in beige chinos. Hallah-loob-jizz!

Here's an interesting thing I read today. Puts today's drivel a little bit more into perspective. It has Keith Richards in it. The only person left with any rock 'n' roll is Lemmy, and that's just because he refuses to die. I wish some of today's so called artists would die. But not at age 27. That would render them part of a club they are not fit for.

Ending sentences on prepositions is the stuff dreams are made of.

I wonder why no one ever thought of setting up a stall outside Polsmoor that sold prepositions. Could be a gold mine. Literacy aside.

Anyway, I'm taking this brief window of opportunity while Faeceboobsland is in a slump to spew forth whatever is currently slooshing through the sewer of my mind. Or, as it turns out, the future swill, as nothing more than Bakers Dozen movies are currently occupying the frontal lobe.

Ah yes. Tarty Farty Tequila Party is currently becoming an anti-plastic ambassador. I wonder if the local pop-punk band by that name is aware of this smear campaign. Whilst the intention is laudable, I think we should rather look at the alternatives to plastic in our households. I think it goes without saying that we should at least try and cut down on the non bio-degradable plastics used in the packaging of our products, but there are certain things that cannot be replaced by alternate materials. Toothbrushes, for instance. Can you imagine a wood handled toothbrush with pig-hair bristles? For the sake of hygiene and the simple expense, plastic wins that one hands down.

Then there is the question of utilizing wood or metal instead of plastic. Arguments against deforestation and the pillaging of natural resources should take care of that one. But we can limit the damage if we recycle responsibly, thereby keeping the plastic in the "loop", effectively. Although yet another counter argument exists that states that the energy requirements for recycling outweigh those of manufacturing from virgin material. It's a no win situation. We'd better start building our Wall-E robots...

Anyway, enough of that. She said.

This weekend promises to be quite the showstopper. Tomorrow night the metal hordes descend on what I'm led to believe is a nice trendy dance club for a 6 band extravaganza. Catch the likes of The Warinsane, Infanteria, Zombies Ate My Girlfriend, Wildernessking, Strident, Marching Dead and Beeldenstorm at Liquid Abyss. If you like your ears to bleed, this sounds like just the thing. Find me at the bar and indulge in your obsession with buying faux-celebrity a beer. Alternatively you can catch The Four Horsemen, ING, The Warinsane (again) and Moment Of Clarity at Underground In III at ROAR. Mmmmm, perhaps a little bit of communication would have been in order.

In other news, other than Saturday night's headbanging hedonism, I'm going to spend my weekend playing Lego. Words can't describe how therapeutic it is to search for hours on end for that one block that is impossible to find...

If this post seems a little rushed, that's because it is. I am currently racing Tarty Farty Tequila Party, who is also writing a post for her blog.

I know...

Breaking news, folks! Gather round! Hear ye! Hear ye!

Hell has frozen over...

NGDG: If the next three weeks are this busy they'll fly by like a notably repugnant but surprisingly flighty reptile.

Spread The Love. Metal Has Always Been Better Than Plastic.

Thursday, April 4, 2013


The Caltex there by Tygervalley. Re, re, re, re, re, re, re, re, revisited.

Yet another Big CONcerts debacle. Yet another incensed outcry from some or other whiny pillock and his ill informed ilk.
And by 'debacle', I am naturally referring to the fact that we have to deal with a VENUE CHANGE. Yes folks, according to reports, Metallica are now going to be playing a whole 25km from their initially booked venue. I wonder if there would have been such a ground swell of outrage had the venue change been in the opposite direction. The Durbanvillians would have lost.their.shit!

Anyway, long story short, I am reading all sorts of speculative bullshit. If it's true that ticket exchanges are costing extra, I put it to you that Big CONcerts are committing heavy metal hara-kiri. For a largely successfully company who have pulled off numerous high profile concerts, all of which seemed to have some wet-pantied virgin up in arms about some logistical hiccup, they're still in burgeoning business. And for all the negative publicity they have received, they still manage to do the job regularly. It takes an inordinate amount of planning and work - not to mention subcontracting - to put one of these entertainment extravaganzas together. And the bajillionty people that seem to enjoy themselves regardless of your misgivings render your point entirely moot.

Here is the problem: you need to identify your lifestyle choice.

According to popular culture's accepted societal prescriptions Metalheads are a jovial bunch that drink lots of lager and like to swish their enviably long hair around at breakneck speed while enjoying loud, fast, aggressive music. In other words, the type of person usually associated with a Metallica gig or concert.
Goths, on the other hand, are world class whingers, usually found blending into the shadows in exclusively black garb and affectations towards dramatic prose.

Now I am neither, but I know, love and respect lots of these types. Since when did Metallica become a Goth band? This is the only logical conclusion all the online bitching can support. Don't let the Misfits covers fool you, Danzig and Co only employed the make up. What, you have no idea what I'm talking about? No shit.

You, your dimwitted girlfriend and your Mr Price Ramones tshirt can stay at home and sulk into your Oros. I'm going to go tits up at the concert and enjoy every second of it. Yes! Even the Reload crap!

NGDG: Marilyn Manson, a fat man in a YSL corset: proof that fashion is a trick men play on women.

Spread The Love. Nothing Else Matters.

Wednesday, April 3, 2013


Used without permission.

Well, well, well. If it isn't me, back on my virtual soapbox, about to blow a load in your ever eager earholes.
How was your long weekend? Religious or not, I hope your Easter experience was a worthwhile one and that you  got to spend it surrounded by loved ones.

Let me see, what did I get up to. Oh yes, let's start at the start.

The Hot Girlfriend and I spent most of the bleak, stormy weekend exactly  where we belong - in bed, happily watching a variety of rubbish on TV. Much like Comrade cadre Walter, Oliver and Nelson, I can now also be considered a snuggle veteran. See how important spelling is, kids?

Saturday heralded the Big Move, in which Rose Thorn and Commander Conker relocated their lives to the sunny suburb of Sunningdale. There was much huffing and puffing. There was the occasional swear word. Eventually we trundled up to their new address in "Everything-looks-the-same-land" only to find that the previous tenants weren't there. Not only had these shining fucking examples of human beings ignored the appointment, they'd apparently turned off their cell phones as well. A cursory glance through the windows revealed that they hadn't as much as placed a plate in a box either. See what happens when you live in Tableau Voi for too long?

Anyway, after a long ass wait, which included LordDoom sprinting down the road like a prize filly after a wayward white plastic carrier bag borne on the not so subtle wind (and having me yelling with glee "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen!"), these pillocks pitched up and proceeded to place their entire household on the front lawn. This took some time. It then occurred to these fucking super geniuses that they had, in fact, not worked out what to do with all their possessions after this. Cue them stashing all their belongings in the garage. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. On the balance of things, it was probably cry, taking into consideration the vast quantities of dog pooh they left behind...
Anyway, pizzas and beer healed it all and soon the love birds were in their new nest.

Moving swiftly along to Easter Sunday. It has become tradition for Slappy to have the entire world over to her place for bunny pie on Easter Sunday. Much to my wide-eyed disappointment, it turns out it isn't actual rabbit pie, but merely chicken pie with a rabbit shaped blob of pastry stuck on top. Just goes to show - everything tastes like chicken... Much tequila and wine was enjoyed. Aaah, blissful Sunday afternoons...

Duly fuelled, The Hot Girlfriend, Tarty Farty Tequila Party and I descended on Blake's for an old (and I do mean old) friend's 40th birthday celebration. So I go and order a round of 3 beers. The barman couldn't understand my forlorn confusion when - after handing him my entire month's salary - he didn't give me any change. Fuck that place. It's clearly designed for the type of person who wants to prove what a pop-up collar poephol they are by impressing the "cherries" while they get conned out of their mortgage. Stupid me, I went back and did it again. Must have been the booze...

Then... Then! Then, I had the dubious pleasure of attending a music conference. I hate any form of conference at the best of times. (I once almost ruined my entire faculty by purposely sabotaging my own presentation at a Minerals Whatever Conference. People were not impressed. I told them I didn't want to go.) Anyway, back to the self important, wankfest I was at. On face value, it is always a good thing when people get together to discuss the problems inherent in a struggling industry with the view of postulating viable solutions. In real life, it is always a total shit show when the majority of these people are not major stake-holders, are too far up their own arses to be aware of the real problems, and collectively have the problem solving ability of the Speaker Of Parliament. Not to mention the so-called "musicians" who do nothing except bleat on about government not doing enough to help them, the industry not doing enough to help them, and making everything about how the white man is the devil. I might add that these people do not play instruments either. Unless a MacBook Pro is an instrument. Not ALL participants in this 2 day fisting spectacular were like that, mind you. I heard some very erudite and learned speakers and I especially enjoyed the presentation given by the people who - incidentally - made the first Fields Of The Nephilim music video. So no real reason to rant, I suppose.

Ok, I'm done. Stick a fork in me...

NGDG: Well, there goes teaching EFL in Korea as an option.

Spread The Love. Practice Makes Perfect.