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!