WHAT'S THAT PINK THING BEHIND THE BALLS?

It's Irreverent Friday. So...

...here are a few things you should know about me, in the spirit of full disclosure:

• I absolutely LOVE boobs, but then I am in no way unique in that.
• Music drives, excites, motivates and envelopes me.
• Popular sonic art leaves me with the crushing despair usually reserved for Woody Allen movies and South Africa's rampant descent into Mugabeville.
• In much the same way as Snatch's pikeys, I like dags.
• But I fucking hate pikeys!
• The picture has nothing to do with the content. As usual...
• I'm not an alcoholic, I'm a drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings.
• I shook hands with Tom Araya, Kerry King, Jeff Hanneman (RIP) and Paul Bostaph. This one's for you, DrHellCuz...
• I once drank with the Cavanaugh brothers of Anathema fame.
• Even more importantly I have on many occasions gotten drunk with the following world famous members of Grämlich, Revellus, Ashes At My Grave, Axxon and SubVerS: TDB, GrumpyPants, Pielkop, JDP, Rose Thorn, CSLS, The Fonz, Fatboy, Guns, The Greek, Captain Clavicle (Az Goth As It Gets), Daddy Long Legs, Little Spoon, LordDoom, Herr Grun, Arse-King, The Little Teapot, McScoot and last but by no means least, BIGGIE. Oh, and some people who were in some bands that I wasn't in... 
• I make lists of inconsequential shit when I have nothing of any value to contribute.
• My little sister is better than yours, and so is my Brother-In-Awe.
• I'm Brian Of Nazareth and so is my wife.
• I'm going to watch a nifty band called CROAK tonight. Should be very interesting.
• I want you all to watch this right now and prepare for ear-drool.
• You lack the fortitude to ignore that link - it's like licking elbows.
• I have all 10 fingers and all 10 toes.
• I sometimes channel Martha Stewart when I prance around the house in my green tracksuit pants, cooking up culinary delights.
• Similarly, every now and then I don Keith Kirsten's floppy towelling hat and admire my green thumbs.
• I am singlehandedly renovating my home, that's probably why I got the black lung, Pop...
• The greatest band on earth is Robert Smith.
• Or Michael Gira.
• Or My Dying Bride.
• Or Paradise Lost.
• I've recently taken up worshipping satan. Actually that's a lie. It's worse. I started running. 
• I like animal charities. Look out for the next one. I'll bleed you dry!
• My cohort in criminal activity and general kak-aan-jaag-ery is without a doubt Tarty Farty Tequila Party.
• You'll never hear Robbie Williams singing 'Millenium' again without substituting the word 'Perineum'... (ok, so sometimes the content does have something to do with the picture.)
• I'm not above using spellcheck. (Although having said that, I'll probably let through a clanger today!)
• I hold a dim view of politics and an even dimmer view of those that allow themselves to be bamboozled by it.
• Techno-phobia is as real as ornithophobia. Fuck birds!
• I was in the army as a conscript and old enough to vote in '94.
• Which defies the laws of mathematics, since I'm still technically only in my early 20s.
• I really enjoy it when people get me instead of being confronted with vacant stares and slightly concerned condescension.
• I have an insanely Hot Girlfriend. So whela!
• I'm off to buy beer for a weekend of manic partying, and then some football.

Have an awesome one, everyone!

NGDG: Hi, I'm Neal and I have to confess that I like musicals.

Spread The Love. I Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life.

CONGREGATION... PLEASE BE SEATED...

Holy smokes, Bruce!

Ok, it's like manna from heaven. This oke who claims to be the re-incarnation of Jesus. I couldn't have asked for a better subject on which to pour my musings, given that today is especially slow in the news department. If you can ignore Danny Glover trying to persuade members of POPCRU that he is the re-incarnation of our nation's beloved father, Morgan Freeman.

So, the facts. This oke is Australian. He claims to be the re-incarnation of Christ. Does this not smack of another crazy Australian who was also involved in a movie about Jesus? It's too much of a coincidence that Danny Glover is involved. His only contribution to anything was the immortal phrase "I'm too old for this shit..."

Let's ignore for one minute the mad tendencies of religious zealots and concentrate on this guy, Allan John Miller. If push comes to shove, do you think he will willingly go through the same grotesque, painful, humiliating death portrayed in the Bible so that us sinners may stand a chance of entering Heaven? I reckon someone should ask him. Test his resolve, methinks...
Has he taught anything of any worth to his so-called followers? If you study the Scriptures, you will find that almost all of what Jesus said was basically the same stuff John Lennon spouted almost 2000 years later. (With the exception of all that Yoko shit, obviously.) And you'd be surprised to find that most of it was along the lines of "Don't be a dick. Be cool. Love one another. Don't bomb innocent civilians for their natural resources. Try and lay off the kiddie-fiddling." I think something may have been lost in the translation, or maybe it's just the version our powers-that-be have on their night stands.
Not to mention the obvious "water-to-wine" thing. That would have been my FIRST trick! Mind you, perhaps Crocs Dundee actually did figure that one out and is in a permanent state of ecclesiastic inebriation.

Ok, let us now switch our attention to the hordes selling their properties all over the world just to move their lives and families closer to this guy. I'm totally cool with proper religious types who believe in the second coming and their personal salvation. But I was always under the impression such an auspicious event would be heralded with somewhat more fanfare than a dubious page three story from Down Under. Colour me suspicious. Now! If he was handing out VegeMite Sandwiches or healing the sick, that would be another thing!
Perhaps the test of the faith of his followers is the fact that it IS Australia. I mean who the fuck would live there on purpose? I'd rather strap on a few pounds of TNT and do my bit to resolve the housing crisis in the Gaza Strip.
So there you sit at home, having a nice cuppa, admiring the doilies on all your couches, when Doris pops her head over the fence outside and informs you The Messiah is currently residing in the Outback. Being a devout church-goer, you give up your privileged life and trek halfway across the globe hoping you're one of the lucky ones and that out of all the charlatans that have come before him, this guy is the real McCoy. Personally I'd rather just pop on a Fields Of The Nephilim album and be done with the whole nonsense. Pass the biscuits.

Now don't get me wrong. Don't take my tone as an indication of my beliefs. I'm all for a belief structure that encourages people to be good to one another and live in harmony among themselves and not to fuck nature up too much. What I do have a problem with is the fanatical misinterpretation of what is essentially a fantastic guideline. History teaches us that modern day organised religion is - if anything - even more heinous than organised crime. It makes a mockery of the principles on which it is founded. It has been a political tool since people figured out the rudiments of writing and some poephol thought up ways to manipulate his neighbour to his advantage. Passages that are intrinsically helpful have been warped over the years by translation and the inexorable nature of progress. I'm quite certain that not eating fish on a Friday isn't going to condemn me to Hell and that gay marriage isn't the abomination it was once perceived to be. Fuck it, I'll even go out on a limb and wear polyester with my cotton.

The big question is: Do we despise or ridicule the deluded so-called Saviour? Or do we question the sanity of those about to be duped? If I said I was Johnny Winter you wouldn't believe me. And some of you are genuinely crazy...

The answer is, of course, think for yourself. Take from each thing in life with which you are presented, the good. Make your own mind up. Listen to your heart as well as following your head. If you have faith, then hold on to it for dear life. If not, don't be a smug prick about it. If you like heavy metal, you aren't going to spend an eternity fighting off demons in a lake of burning sulphur. And if you teach Sunday school every week, use your influence for the good, and lay off the fucking Ninja Turtles. They never did anything to you.

I could probably still go an for quite some time, but I think I will leave it there. Lest I start proclaiming myself some sort of deity and people start writing me weird fan mail or giving me the stink-eye on the street.

NGDG: The WHO's greatest global concern currently, according to DG Dr Margaret Chan, is the Coronavirus. Especially on the morning after the night before.

Spread The Love. I Really Mean It.

REAL SOLUTIONS...

I have nothing to say. Very much unlike Mr James "Ima shoot some shit" Hetfield when he screams out the opening lines to The Misfits' "Last Caress"...

Well, I could tell you all about how I don't have to cook. Ever again. Until some time next week. Tonight I have lasagna made by The Hot Girlfriend. Tomorrow night is the Brother-In-Awe's birthday and dinner at his place. Friday night THG and I will be enjoying what's left of the feast I concocted last night, Saturday I won't care about eating and Sunday is birthday lunch time.

Concocted is a weird word.

Here's something you probably haven't noticed. Cataholics are merely one letter from being kiddie fiddlers. I'm a Dogoholic, and that has sweet fuck all to do with my taste in women. Clearly. And, like my tshirt says (I know that Kerry King has the very same one, by the way) I am not an alcoholic, I'm a drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings. So there...

Oh yes, this morning there was this whole stink on the telly about the South African Church Of Satan. Well fuck me! Really? Perhaps we should have tried a little harder to make fweindies in high school, huh? Now I'm all for the freedom of choice and religion and all, and even the choice not to recognise any, but these guys...
All they do is give the music that I love a bad name. Sure, a lot of the lyrical content in heavy metal deals with the occult and in some cases very definite references to the goatlord, but by and large these puny little tits are hiding their social inadequacies under black cloaked hoods and terrible make up. And they're the first to denounce other viewpoints. And have zero tolerance. And are just goofy looking social pariahs with a chip on their shoulders. And what's worse, they get blamed every time some stupid kid does something dumb or cruel in a desperate cry for help or attention. Drawing a pentagram on your parents' nicely cemented suburban double garage floor does not an evildoer of you make. Much less wearing a Slipknot tshirt. It's fucking mall-metal for fuck's sake. If you're that pathetic and would like to make a real impression, skip right past Cradle and go directly to Marduk's merch page.
But I'm going a little wayward here (ooooh, I hope they don't come a-recruitin'...). Yes that was it. Mainstream media hopping up and down on one foot and whistling and pointing at the poor ol' Satanists every time a high school loser gets it in his thick skull to misinterpret often meaningful lyrics. Literalists: kak on both sides of good and evil. I really wish people would see these isolated incidents for what they are and stop the sensationalist witch hunts. Why don't people recognise the root of the problem? Socially awkward adolescents are going to be drawn to groups that are perceived as outcasts because they think those people will understand them. Exhibit A: Cape Town's horrifically diluted goth scene.
Likewise, teenagers riddled with angst, anger and nowhere but the mall to go to where they can vent their frustration will turn to a form of music that resonates with their feelings. Hence shitty modern metal.
And kids with no sense of self worth or common sense will blindly follow whatever the radio and the tv tell them. A billion dollar per annum lunchbox printing business is born.

So instead of force feeding your kids the coward's solution and wondering why they don't all grow up to be hard-working, ambitious little goodie-two-shoes clones of yourself, try and admit that they're all just the victims of a dying world and as a result are beyond help and are all complete bastards. Just stop blaming external influences. Especially when you don't understand it any better than the intern writing for Huisgenoot can explain it.

It could be worse.

They could be hippies.

Death by slow atrophy due to non-existent personal hygiene.

Wow. Where did all that come from? Perhaps I should read it to see if it makes sense...

NGDG: It's only when you blind yourself and feel vulnerable and naked like a model in front of a big white umbrella that you realise why you procrastinated so long about replacing ALL the bulbs in the light fitting.

Spread The Love. Burn An X In Your Head.

YOU NEVER GO FULL *NAUGHTY WORD YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED TO USE*...

The Alanis Morrissette of the automotive industry...

The Voi Vixen and Kung-Fu Ken narrowly avoided it. They managed to get rid of the great big SUV made by the toaster multi-national before people could find out they even had one.

Not so much my good friends TDB and MeSwifty. Yes, they have an awesome home. I'm completely jealous of how nice it is. There's even a jacuzzi and I have his word that he cleans it properly every time before I come and stew myself in it. They even have a rather large dog called Norma, who is incidentally the only one that has ever snapped at me, a fact that I still hold against her. There is an inordinately large TV and all sorts of modern life's luxury.

But all of that has come at the ultimate price. It's in Tableau Voi. Coupled with the suicide-inducing peak hour traffic between 5 in the morning and 9 in the evening, it contravenes all the architectural advice the Bible had about building one's home on rocks instead of reclaimed quicksand. It is also the largest concentration of Nigerian druglords outside of Lagos and Sea Point. And having to share your neighbourhood watch shifts with Chad and Tiffany, who frequent the Biscuit Mall on Saturday buying overpriced veggies grown in pooh, must be soul destroying. You may lament and gnash your teeth and pore over the weekend property supplements as much as you'd like looking for a way out, but it always gets you...

They've just bought a Hyundai Tuscan. That monument to suburban soccer-momness and over-qualified toasters. Countless rows crowd the narrow streets of lower Woodstock (incidentally, a fantastic place to live) every Saturday morning, like buses outside of Soccer City during a Soweto Derby, having transported the nasal twang and voluptuous of rump Tableau Voi housewives to their weekly pilgrimage. Tofu wine and hemp arts-and-crafts occupy space proudly in the cavernous boot next to all the pooh-veggies on the long drive home.

They've now gone full *nasty word that's frowned upon*. Apparently you never go full *nasty word that's frowned upon*.

But I am just being a shit. Just because I don't like the stereotypical Voi-life, doesn't mean others don't enjoy having it thrust upon them. And I really enjoy ripping them off about it. My feelings, particularly against The Voi and Hyundai are unfounded and steeped only in baseless bias. To each his own. At least their lawn can support an animal larger than the dead rat I found on mine the other day. But I really enjoy being a juvenile arsehole about it. Bloody Tableau Voi...

Anyway, in other news, and speaking of TDB, last night he and I went about rerecording some guitar parts and finalising the arrangement on our latest slab of monolithic misery. Yes folks, another DOOM song in the bag. At this rate, we'll be able to bring you a release in a few short years...
And speaking of all things "glum and gloomy and deliciously DOOMY", the next Symphonaire Infernus show has been confirmed. Grab your diaries, your pens and your suddenly over-excited crotches, folks! Friday the Thirteenth of December will once again see the finest of Cape Town's downbeat musos (and me, unfortunately...) bring you a feast of morose music guaranteed to have you bopping in the aisles and smirking like a Belieber! Save the date.

And now that I've managed to piss off my best friends, I think I'll go shopping.

NGDG: Add a baboon in a Colonel Gaddafi costume. Go on.

Spread The Love. Toasters Are Taking Over And Will Rule Us All...

UNICORN PORN! FOR EVERYONE!

She turned me into a newt! Well, I got better...

Well. I made it. By the skin of my teeth. Only just. But I made it...

Weekends are meant to be like this. And this one coming is going to be even worse. I probably did what I did subconsciously to ready myself for the Annual Malcoholocaust. It all started on Friday afternoon...

The Hot Girlfriend's sister and her dude came over for drinks, since they live up the road and it was about time. This turned into dinner and much sitting around chatting and enjoying a Friday evening beverage, etc. Later on we went to ROAR and stood around pouring beer down our throat, mostly to try and escape what was quite possibly the worst band I have ever heard. All 4 members, the vocalist, the guitarist, the bassist and the drummer, appeared to be playing different songs. The resemblance to Nickelback aside, it was dire...

Saturday came rumbling around like so many before it. With a rather sodden spring in our step, we got ready for the big event, a birthday party of pre-thirties proportions. And by that I mean our age, not prohibition-era America. Bags packed and provisions bought, we eventually got there and hugged a million people. Parents were greeted, interest was shown in childrens' current activities and refreshing beers were enjoyed as we caught up with old friends and talked kak with the regulars. As the less adventurous started drifting off home in drips and drabs, inversely, the boozing started to get more serious. It all culminated in a very disappointing game of beer pong. I had been so excited. Beer pong is a shit game. If that's the most popular way of getting your booze in among America's youth, I despair for humanity. Standing on the other end of a table watching glass-eyed, as someone half heartedly lobs a ping pong ball into a diminishing array of paper cups is ultimately a little bit of a let down. We didn't even finish the first game, when to much hurrah, we all went fuck it and went inside to carry on drinking like normal people. Having abandoned one ball sport for another, we took our places for the Champions League Final. I know Bayern won. Things start getting fuzzy right about here. Apparently the happy revelry carried on until the wee hours, surprisingly without major incident. Great parties are defined by revelling in the tales the next day as you vicariously relive moments of glory from the night before but have absolutely no recollection.

Then the shit hit the fan.

First the Hot Girlfriend was man-down. As luck would have it I still felt FIIIIINE. Got us home, made kick ass brekkie, nursed the poor patient and watched some telly. A nap was in order, after which, the alcohol finally having worn off, the roles were reversed. I got awesome dinner made for me and lots of sympathetic cooing made me feel a little less grumpy. That, and watching Jeremy Clarkson trying to demolish a house in Albania with a combine harvester tank.

Anyway, another week, another series of band practices and other things. So lets hope you and I can keep our shit together until next weekend, at which time I am sure it'll all unravel faster than a ball of yarn in the paws of Wolverine's kitten.

NGDG: Tomorrow I return to work. Maybe. Not sure what I'll be doing. As long as it doesn't involve selling drugs to kids or wearing a silly hat.

Hear! Hear!

Spread The Love. Not The Genetically Modified Staple Foods.

BACON BRA

Ha! I made you look...

So, after yesterday's killer vegan story, I saw some shit on the news this morning again. I really never learn. Much like the youth of today. Introducing Angie Motshekga, South Africa's greatest advert for avoiding procreation. She's certainly making a hash of getting the little children to learn their 123s and ABCs, especially with her insistence that even the board duster be given a diploma in the end. No books, no walls, no roof, and no fucking hope of contributing to the workplace, economy, society or anything of any worth. I reckon we should put Gandalf in charge of South Africa's basic education. "None shall pass!" should be the credo. At least the standard of schoolboy rugby will go up, since the average matriculant will be old enough to walk his own kid to school...

Here are some interesting (or just plain kak) observations:

• If you were to ask an Afrikaans gentleman what tortillas were, given the proper Spanish pronunciation, he'd assume you were talking about a penis jacket.
• At first, I thought Juggernaught's 'Bring The Meat Back' album was about recreating virginity.
• I will never be able to hear the Sisters Of Mercy classic 'Detonation Boulevard' without it being changed to 'Defecation Boulevard' in my head from now on... and neither will you.
• The current front runner for most offensive pick up line in a bar is "I'm gonna bone you 'til I own you." Although I have a sneaking suspicion it might just work.
• The internet was invented so that people could feel like trendsetters by sharing pictures that have been making the rounds for weeks already.
• Beardos (Beanies with detachable woollen beards) are the worst idea since some tit with nothing better to do on a Thursday morning found himself in that bric-a-brac shop that used to be on Kloof Street, saw a Trilby hat, and thought to himself' "Hey that would look good on me... Aren't I different."

Aaaaand on that note, let's look forward to the weekend. Tomorrow I get mah Tara Reid on. Beer pong. I have never played it before (I've been warned I could get the Aids or the Herp. I thought that was from a different game involving cups...) And since it will inevitably end up with me face planting the playing table and emerging from the entire fiasco a sodden hot mess, I am going to wear a white tshirt and hope to emerge victorious in the wet tshirt competition. Against some "hefty" competition. La Senza could open a fucking shop around the braai tomorrow...

Gaan kry vir die oom nog n bier dan kan jy n slukkie kry.

Use it - don't use it.

NGDG: So you backward Nigerian twats killed a drummer. St.Anger was ten years ago.

Spread The Love. One Cup At A Time.

YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT!

In that case, I am probably a total meathead.

This is just a quick one to bring to your attention the tragic death of an infant - allegedly due to being breastfed by his vegan mom and dying as a result of poor nutrition. If you read the article, which goes on to report that the parents have been imprisoned for 5 years for neglect, you will find out that what you ingest indeed affects the nutrition of your breastmilk.

Isn't it weird how I'm not fixating on the breast part of the story for a change?

Anyway, shouldn't we actually be feeling something for the parents? Surely they must be devastated. I'm sure that they, like most vegans, were convinced that they were doing the right thing. And I'm equally sure that the counter-argument against the inhumane treatment of animals (bred for our consumption) and the sanctity of life will rage. How about we all just get less fucking militant about it?

Charity starts at home. Got a problem with battery chickens? Don't eat 'em. If you're like me and you can't see that fast food tastes like anything other than cardboard and you don't fancy the idea of eating what is essentially fake meat, then don't. If you're vehemently against animal products in general, then at least do your kid the solid of taking the necessary vitamin supplements. We're not living in pooh huts! The only thing that should not be subject to moderation is booze intake! Priorities!

Anyway, I'm sure my vegan buddies will protest most indignantly. Whatever. You're braaing your own damn veggie burgers at the next braai. I am taking a stand! Against McDonalds. Against KFC. Against Burger King. Against all bloody fast "food" outlets. And against that fucking awful veggie burger crap as well! In the name of "they all taste like shit!"

Broccoli has feelings too!

Anyway, I'm off to go and enjoy (retch for breath, stumble, curse and splutter) a nice easy canter along the Promenade. Health isn't restricted to what you stick in you. Speaking of, are vegans allowed to fuck? Mmmmmm, good question. If the article has anything to say about it, they aren't allowed to breed. But then, I suspect this article to be entirely one sided. Oh boy, am I gonna get flack for this one...

Spread The Love. I'll Have The Steak.

LOOK! I PUNCHED A CLICHE.

Everything that's wrong with the world.

So, with which superhero do YOU most identify? Do you feel like you're Spiderman? Or are you more like the Dark Knight, all mysterious and probably still jacking off in your mom's basement? I know The Hot Girlfriend is very into Superman. Clearly. I sometimes even wear my underpants inside my trousers...

You'll have to forgive my flippant tone. I am one of the few people who never got into the whole superhero thing. I never could quite understand the concept of collecting comics you weren't allowed to enjoy either. Unlike CDs. The entire premise is flawed anyway. A comic book collector ostensibly collects to turn an eventual profit, right? Have you ever seen a serious collector gladly hand over some of his mint condition children without crying?

I get Calvin & Hobbes. Even Mad Magazine. And I loved Asterix & Obelix as a child, and indeed, as an "adult". But the Green Lantern? Fuck off.

But... I am wrong. (Not words you'll often hear...) I still fervently collect CDs (those shiny flat discs found dangling and spinning from the rearview mirrors of taxis) and guitars. Unfortunately guitars are a little expensive to collect more of, and I'll never have enough, but we're making plans...
Me telling you that collecting comics is daft, is the same as my mom telling me it's just a plank with strings attached. Not so. Each one has its own soul, its own characteristic, its own feel and its own personality. And it's own distinct discordant squeal of anguish when I molest it.

Which brings me to last night. Rose Thorn proved once again what an accomplished musician she is by interpreting my garbled gibberish instructions into masterpieces - better than I could have hoped for - even if I'd been able to express myself effectively enough to make her understand what I wanted. Not only that, I also learned to play another song I love, courtesy of another maestro, Little Spoon. I spent far too much time post-practice downing wine and playing the same song over and over again (replete with perma-grin) and today I feel like I've just tried to outrun the Great Annual Wildebees Serengeti Migration and failed at the last minute under a storm of flailing hooves.

And I plan on feeling even worse on Sunday morning. Our suite has been booked, so no arguments over who is designated driver. I've heard of beer pong. I've just never seen it or played it. That all changes this Saturday. I'll leave the rest up to your fertile imaginations...

Ah yes, I was blathering on about Superheros. Tonight, I get home, put on some suitably fast-paced and aggressive music, and slip into an orange leotard and blue cape. Anything short of full transformation into Mr Muscle will just not get the damn house clean. That is of course, unless Tarty Farty Tequila Party has alternate plans...

NGDG: [Well, nothing today, but I guaran-damn-tee he's thinking something awesome!]

Spread The Love. Undies On The Outside!

MOM, WHAT'S A DONKEYPUNCH?

Aaah, me so horny!

Why Timmy, that's when one man loves another man... Oh go ask your father.
Thanks Neal, for inspiring today's word diarrhea. It's one of those days. I need a starting point. Either there is nothing interesting going on or there's too much sickening shit that I'm overwhelmed and have shut the world out temporarily. You decide...

Well, the one thing that's just come up is that I will never be allowed to become a Methodist minister. If they find out I'm a lesbian, all hell will break loose. Then it's each man, woman and child for themselves! Much like real life, where acts of selfless service are so few and far between that they may as well not exist.

Do I sound a little dejected today? That's weird, because I'm actually in quite a jovial mood. Not Santa Claus jovial, just normal jovial. I reckon he's only like that because he gets all the little children to sit on his lap. As for me, I still view kids as lemon targets. It disinfects and smells fresh.

Ah yes, that was it. It's officially World Goth Day. Happy happy to all the little darklings. Hope you're all suitably glum and beautiful. Much maligned bunch, the black clads. I love 'em. The best thing that ever happened was when so-called gothic music decided to formalise its insidious union with the far more brash metal. I'll never forget the first day I heard Paradise Lost. Part Sisters, part Metallica. I shat a little. And never looked back. Then of course the Cape Town underground scene pretty much took on that exact same vibe, with all the big bad metalhead guys ending up with all the pretty little goth girls. Like it says on the t-shirt, Those Were The Daze.

Which reminds me of my good friend, confidante, co-conspirator, and honorary little sister, the wonderful Miss Rose Thorn. You see, back in the previous century, before paint was carcinogenic and the real world was simulated on your Playstation, we used to love throwing people into pools at parties. So good at it were we, that we even had a system of nominating the next victim for an unexpected soaking. Long story short, on the night when we achieved our record of about 14 or 15 young ladies in the pool, we also added another twist. In as heroic an act as our nerdy little lives had ever produced, we actually dived in and joined them. There must have been something in the punch that night, because they all miraculously became topless. Anyway, Rose Thorn's wonderbra ended up taking permanent residence on a friend of mine's TV aerial the minute he got home and I was - of course - blamed. She'd gone home wearing, among other things, my Playground tshirt, since all her clothes were obviously wet. She has refused to return it since. And for the last number of years has claimed that it is gone. Presumably presiding over the island of lost socks...

Anyway, Those Were Indeed The Daze.

So, your homework for tonight is to go out, find a Goth celebrating World Goth Day and hug them and cover them with happy thoughts (just like Teddy's crotch unicorn) and tickle them and tell them they look particularly gaunt and pale in the haunting moonlight. Wonderful bunch. I'm a real bastard though. No really. Too goth to be metalhead, and too metalhead to be goth. And both and neither. It's a wonderful place to be. Except of course that time Fifi The Princess Of Darkness asked me (in broad daylight, horrified outrage and the middle of The Gardens Centre) why I was "out of uniform"... My resulting laughter probably didn't win my any brownie points.

If you can't find one tonight, then why don't you look to spread the love on Saturday? My good friends are putting on the party to end all parties. It's the Cape Town World Goth Day Party and I know a little something you don't know... I know who is going to be there. I know who is going to be spinning the best tunes all night. It promises to be an awesome night of delicious decadence, a super stylish affair with more than enough flesh for fantasy. Do it. It may even be better than the night I provided the soundtrack to the end of times. And Slappy earned her name. To this day neither of us knows how or why...

NGDG: Did you know that Donkeypuncher is an actual job? It's a kind of a winch operator. (Reading a book about logging in British Columbia that I was given free by the bookstore owner because he knows I like random stuff.

Spread The Love. Go Make A Goth Laugh. They Like It.

THE SHIT HAS HIT THE FAN.

Movie stars. Always with the socially responsible messages...

And by fan, I of course mean the N2 highway. Reports are coming in of a bunch of janitors dumping a load of human faeces on the N2. Probably in some desperate attempt to make someone aware of their plight. Anyone remember that wonderful animated movie Madagascar? "Well of course we're going to fling pooh!" 'Nuff said...

People exist in different levels of society. The poor are unfortunate, but not alone. And therein lies their only respite. Instead of bemoaning their fate individually and tipping bins, breaking shit, or indeed, flinging it, mass action has taught us - historically - that it can effect change. But what if a good old fashioned sing-along in the streets and handing over a piece of paper with terrible spelling on it doesn't work? Then crap all over our roads will do the trick!

It's quite obvious that it's the rich who are at fault. I saw a shocking statistic the other day which explained that the amount of money spent waging war was a millionty times what would be required to eradicate poverty altogether. Noble. Misguided, but noble. And probably far from the full story.

This is how it works, and has since the beginning of time:

The disenfranchised are without hope, wealth, or means to uplift their station. And no TV, although driving along Defecation Boulevard past the airport you may notice the forest of satellite dishes sellotaped to the majority of the shacks. This means that they fuck an inordinate amount and produce vast armies of mouths which they then cannot feed. This then becomes a vicious circle until they all get armed and force their young to take violent action against the rich.

The middle class are the pillars which uphold society and the status quo. Their empathy for the poor is restricted to weekends and holidays, as long as it doesn't interfere with their Saturday morning jaunts to the Biscuit Mall. The occasional small donation and some time spent doing some community service, hopefully including some media coverage, is enough to assuage their pangs of guilt. Every day we drive past monumental cathedrals of both pathetic squalor AND grotesque capitalism. And then just as you enter Town, you get to perve at the cars in the Ferrari shop. Motivation to occupy space in an office somewhere and opine pointlessly on the interwebnets.

The rich don't give a fuck and never will. It's how they got there in the first place. The only way to get more of something that's finite in its amount, is to take it from someone else. It takes a certain type of person to allow avarice to become their primary attribute. Until the masses with their pitchforks and AK47s turn up on their doorsteps...

So it is. Madiba's daughters are suing him for the right to plunder his wealth. Nepotism and kleptocracy have all but smothered any chance that our country can continue being the shining, leading light that held so much promise in '94. Your children are going to inherit a legacy of shit strewn streets, where the only gold to be found is on every other street corner, arched over the franchises turning them into human foie gras. Our only recourse? Making the same asinine comments under news stories and bickering like vultures over the carcass of our land. And that goes for all lands...

Anyway. Opinions are like arseholes.

I sincerely wish that you all have a fantastic day.

At least I have Doom Metal.

NGDG: Job hunting online. Like hunting bears with a tazer and a Yorkshire terrier.

Spread The Love. Let Them Eat C***.

THANK GOD IT'S MONDAY!

Jeeeesh! The weekend was just too bloody brilliant. I'm knackered. It started on Thursday with a night out as part of Tarty's continued assault on Cape Town's every available source of entertainment, and never let up. I still have to do my vacuuming...

Friday night, after a few quiet post work-week beers and a discreet glass of wine or two with dinner, The Hot Girlfriend and I swanned on down to ROAR for the second leg of the Wacken Battle Of The Bands. Well, the second of the Cape Town legs anyway. On offer were Bulletscript, The Warinsane, Zombies Ate My Girlfriend, Wargrave and Sindulgence, who we missed because fashionably late never goes out of fashion. Unfortunately we missed Wargrave too, mainly because I once again had too much of a good time and left before they went on, but I'm sure they, like all the other bands all weekend, kicked serious arse. It was wonderful standing there sweating in my spanking new VOD JMSP hoodie, shouting at the top of my lungs at old and new friends, and not hearing a fucking word they were shouting either. And then there were the bands, oh the bands!
Zombies, whilst not entirely my cup of tea, were as always, phenomenal. Their stage presence is always energetic and engaging, and whilst the bassist may rue his decision to make that outfit his trademark, they rocked the crowd right off its feet. The dancefloor was packed with all manner of metalhead going bonkers and having a great time narrowly escaping grievous bodily harm, and it remained that way throughout the night. A rare enough site...
Next up, Warinsane tore ROAR a new one. Their massive (and massively impressive) front man, Wallace, exhorting the crowd into even more manic a frenzy, they bliksemed the gathered acolytes into as near a religious fever as you can reasonably expect.
Next up was Bulletscript. Wow! The addition of Matt on second guitars a while back certainly did wonders for them, and now that they have welcomed Ian into the fold as their new vocalist, things have gone from fucking awesome to fucking awesomer! Not quite as vehemently bullish as his predecessor, George "Teethgrinder" Schoombee, Ian seems nonetheless to be an even better fit. His natural exuberance and charismatic and infectious energy fuel a rather more rounded beast, coaxing the already euphoric crowd into a swirling mass of pure explosive ecstasy! The man looked as if he were having the time of his life! The crowd did too!

I'm glad I didn't pull jury duty. I take my hat off to those 4 pilgrims for accepting such a difficult task. And echoing the sentiment already expressed so often, to Louis Du Pisani of MK Ondergrond, bravo indeed mate! Well done, sir! You have our gratitude and our admiration.

Which left me rather less in the mood for Saturday...

Luckily our engagement was a little later in the day - a birthday party dinner thingy at a franchise eatery far beyond the Boerewors Curtain and 5 minutes from where I grew up. Other than dealing with illegal immigrants barely capable of expressing themselves in English, let alone understand yours truly, a great time was had by all. Especially The Greek's 3 year old daughter, who totally stole the show.

Sunday was full-on family day. Mother dearest, the matriarch of the clan, celebrated her 68,000th birthday and I was in charge of providing dessert. I bought a bunch of cheese. There's nothing quite like getting merrily pissed with your folks. It's a special kind of enjoyment, not often savoured. Last night both the Hot Girlfriend and I were klaar, finished, over-ska-dovers.

Which brings me to today. I need the rest. I'm eternally grateful to be back in my office seat, with a chance of catching my damn breath. Until the eternal struggle against middle-age boepness kicks in as I go all self-perambulatory on my own arse after work.

And then it's beer and band practice. Jeesh, my life is a never ending parade of doing cool shit with cool people. You're all just jealous!

And in the most wonderful news of the day, Neal's back! We've missed you, oh wise one...

NGDG: Just gave my old Blackberry to my security guard. Now you know why you get phone calls at 3am from complete strangers.

Spread The Love. Sixth Hand From The Left...

YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY ABOUT MEN WITH BIG FEET...

Real Life Smiley Face will get this one...

...they require large shoes. Yesterday I was very grateful for my colossal clod-hoppers. Driving innocently through town, I spied with my little eye, a bright fucking neon orange sign. Being Dutch, my interest was immediately sparked. And being a footballer (more or less) in need of new football boots for his gigantic flippers, I was over the moon to read "Buy any pair of Umbro boots and receive a free pair of Adidas! Large sizes sale!" Now I can't wait for next Friday!

Enough of that...

As some of the more astute among you may have picked up yesterday, I was in no mood to indulge in mid-week revelry. I was publicly mocked for being a bit of a girl's blouse and to save face I gave in to Tarty's taunting. And I'm glad I did!

After a very hastily scoffed dinner of boeriedog rolls, I was whisked away in the Little Red Toaster to a place in De Waterkant called It's A House. Now, apparently this place is the latest trendy hang-out for those in the know, in the creative industry, and in dumb looking hats. The interior decor is early "barn" with attendant retro couches, gauche light fittings and a rusting bicycle, the likes of which were favoured by postmen in the late seventies and people resembling 2-minute-noodles in bad jeans more recently. The bar staff were so utterly deplorable, to call their level of service inept would be akin to referring to DrHellCuz as mildly misanthropic. Or My Dying Bride as a little glum.

Don't get me started on the stage. Or rather the lack thereof. It was a plank. With a lamp...

Despite all this, and the nervous false start, the first act was immediately endearing and by the end of their set, Jae Braun and her backing band can count me as a firm fan. This diminutive singer/songwriter sounds like Janice Joplin doing Edie Brickell songs. Her voice is a whiskey-soaked, husky reminder of what real soul should be. 'Soul' as in that thing that propels your choices and honesty and art throughout your life, not 'soul', as in Motown... The stand out track for me on the night was a wonderful song called "French Perfume". I will be following her path to greatness with great interest.
The second act on the night was the saccharine sweet Lexi Frame. Whilst her backing band was stellar, I'm afraid I have to admit that I do not have a sweet tooth and would rather have had my cerebral cortex drilled out via my eardrum, than be subjected to the sound that came out of the speakers - a shrill cocktail of cute, happy, sometimes naughty-girl screeching and a sound engineer who should be locked in a sound proofed room and have his ears sealed with builders' putty. Don't get me wrong, the problem does not lie with her, it lies with me. I am a cantankerous old fart who prefers dirgy slabs of music made from granite. Occasionally, very occasionally, I am blown away by the sheer quality of some artists, much like Jae, whom I mentioned earlier. And I have a knee-jerk reaction to any artist who appeals to the type of person who will wrap their tie around their head and go tits-up to The Proclaimers or Right Said Fred at a wedding. Shiny happy people indeed.

Which brings me to the main act. Sarah Pope has been a stalwart performer in the Cape Town - and indeed the South African - rock scene for a long time. Her ability to write and sing a good tune is undeniable. Her current incarnation, as front-woman of Wolftown, seems on the face of it, to be a slightly watered down version of her former self. Nevertheless, she delivered a consummate set (if you can find it in yourself to ignore the "crime" of having to halt the set to tune her guitar) along with her very accomplished band. To the point of me even going up to her afterwards and thanking her for her performance. Still, there is something lacking...
All the ingredients are there. The songs are good and very well crafted, if a little more poppy than what I'd expect. But that can easily be accepted if you understand the industry and what's required to make a living from it. She has unbelievable pipes and is naturally gifted with a voice that, at times, is the perfect mixture of style and sass for this type of radio friendly pop/rock, but at others, mystifyingly, fails to hit the mark. For all it's inherent quality and slick sensibility, this performance did not engage me the way I'd hoped.

The night ended, as it usually does, with a quick "last one". In this case it was a glass of wine at my place which turned into an early morning guffaw-fest a few bottles later. Today I pay the price...

In conclusion, I would like to apologise if any offence is taken from this "review". But lately I have come to the revelation that honesty is indeed the best policy. If you can't handle criticism, constructive or not, then you are in the wrong industry. And if you are clearly in the wrong industry, then someone should tell you. The sad thing is, out of the 3 acts I watched last night, I can practically guarantee you the wrong one will succeed.

Perhaps I shouldn't write about such things and play with peoples' lives when I'm this hung over...
And especially when I'm having trouble with my plus size feet in my big fat mouth...

Thanks Tarty, once again, for a brilliant evening.

Edie Brickell's Daily Gem: Philosophy is the talk on a cereal box. Religion is the smile on a dog.

Spread The Love. And The Myprodol.

GROWING OLD GRACEFULLY

Growing up, I was taught not to piss on my hands.

So I just got strong armed into going to a gig tonight. On a school night! I'm tired. My house is a disgrace and I have had back to back band practices all week. I was really looking forward to a nice evening in with all my new series and things to watch.

Alas no. Enter Tarty Farty Tequila Party, who, by manipulating my weakness for a good time and free beer, in public, claimed victory. I fought well, though. She had to earn this one. And now I have to go out on the town tonight, chauffeured like Lord Muck and she's buying me a beer as well. Who won in the end, do you think? I'll write a full report on tonight's shenanigans tomorrow and you can be the judge. We're going to see a band called Wolftown at a place calling itself "It's A House". "It's"... "A"... "House"... Well, I did start off by saying I wanted to stay home tonight - serves me right.

Anyway, speaking of all things live music like, tonight is the first in a series of 3 battle-of-the-bands events (and that's just in Cape Town, the home of all of the metals) to determine which of our South African metal bands will be sent to represent our fair land at Wacken, the largest open air metal festival in the world. It is a pretty big deal and the organisers are to be lauded. It also showcases some of our better metal bands in a nice convenient package. I won't be going to tonight's event at the Rabbit Hole, obviously, but it should be a great show, with the likes of Suiderbees, Infanteria, Sabretooth, Forgive Us Not and With Dawn doing their best for a free ticket to Germany. I will be attending the show tomorrow night at ROAR featuring Zombies Ate My Girlfriend, Sindulgence, Warinsane, Bulletscript and Wargrave. Perhaps I should force Tarty to come along...
And of course there's the 3rd leg of the Cape Town auditions, because you know, Cape Town has sooooooo many bands and we're all so kak and we all think the sun shines out of our collective arses and blah blah blah. It obviously has nothing to do with extremely hard work in the face of the strongest adversity and everybody being supportive of each others' endeavours. Anyway, I digress. Saturday will see Megalodon, Marching Dead, Ing, Strident and Messiah Complex competing for top honours at Aandklas in Stellenbosch. I am glad I am not one of the judges. What a feast! If only we weren't all so obviously on our "do not pass begin, do not collect R200" descent into Hades. Those instruments, they are the tools of the Devil himself!

Hilary, meet Stryper. Stryper, meet Hilary. Oh, I see Paramaecium is here as well...
That Hilary... she is an expert on metal, life, sound dynamics, ethics, tolerance, harps and the afterlife. I can prove it. She wrote a very interesting article explaining the meaning of it all... Make sure you have tissues handy...

In other news... there is no news. I eat. I sleep. I band practice. Occasionally I show my face at a live show, only so that people don't forget me...

And last - and certainly most importantly - HUGE CONGRATUMALATIONS to The Tattoo Team from up Norff for their nuptials today! Mr and Mrs Van Proctor, I am very happy for both of you 314 bitches!

Mind Assault's Daily Gem: Kyk Net Al Die Lekker Fokken Tiete!

Spread The Love. It's Like A Hippie Fest Up In Here...

GATE-VOL

Metal-gate.

Has anyone else noticed how easily the modern media adds "gate" onto any given weekly scandal (and there are many)? Nkandla-gate. Gupta-gate. I was labouring under the obviously false impression that the use of "gate" was reserved for the truly heinous "once in a lifetime" act that comes along very, very rarely and warrants massive media attention, not to mention long term sustained interest in the collective psyche?

Oh no! I shit my pants this morning! Underpants-gate!
Angelina lops off her acting ability? Boob-gate!
Microsoft brings out yet another flop upgrade? Bi... Oh, never mind...

Faeceboobs has dished up yet another delightful individual, brim full of delightful insights, who has chosen to add credence to the belief that all metalheads are mouth-breathing cretins by writing something nasty to a friend of mine. The backlash has been extremely entertaining, but as much as it is a pleasant little distraction from my daily struggle with boredom-induced homicide, it also illustrates that there are still utter dickbags among us. And illustrates the fact rather painfully. I have made a promise to myself to refrain from making observations regarding the incorrect use of grammar or the way some people prefer to butcher the spelling of a word. So this will be a much shorter post than usual. But the gist of this outpouring of vitriol is that my friend is a great big fat nerd who sucks at playing his instrument of choice and, by virtue of the fact that his band has chosen ANY sub-genre other than the clearly universally popular "Technical Dirtnap Merrills", a bit soft in the crotch-rocket department.

I despair...

Now I know I always mock that whole "brotherhood of metal" shit as far too medieval for my taste, and seeing as I'm not really a metalhead anyway, I'll continue to pooh-pooh the "hail, hail, fail, chainmail" sect, but having been allowed to watch with detached inebriation from the bar all these years, I've always thought that metalheads kind of stuck together. That is, until the advent of social ME-dia, when all of a sudden being a cock-swoggler became popular. Fine, so be it. But if you're being that way on purpose, more than likely to show everyone what an absolute bad ass you are, and then by association, your music, perhaps you should first make sure your product has the chops to stand up to scrutiny...

Bottom line? Leave my friends alone. Especially the lovable MSG. He plays metal, has an awesome girlfriend (in real life and everything!) and he . fucking . works . for . PLAYBOY magazine! Oh, and if you're going to go all Gaahl on well read people, you may want to assess your own prowess with the written word before hitting the send button.

Or maybe the individual is merely having a bad day and it's all been taken out of context or too seriously. I believe that menstruation is difficult for some people.

Whichever it is, I am merely an observer, perched up on my lofty little soapbox, dishing out unwanted advice with a sort of aloof condescension. Man, I hate people like me! And I believe that everything (except alcoholism) can be cured by having a drink. So matey, whoever you are (I don't know this guy), if we ever happen to be in the same place at the same time, drinks are on me. Let's not pull in opposite directions.

It is also entirely possible that this is some sort of elaborate hoax or promotional prank, in which case all of the above is reduced to a steaming pile of haggis flavoured dandruff flakes...

Steel Panther's Daily Gem: Death to all Butt Metal!

Spread The Love. Regardless Of Subgenre.

SLAYTANIC BEER-MACHT

Imagine the scene at Jeff Hanneman's funeral. Well, how it would have been, had the gutless wankers from the Westboro Baptist Church pitched up as planned, to picket with their hate speech. On one side, a flock of  barely literate sheep waving aloft placards declaring that 'God Hates Fags'. Ok, so he's a non-smoker... On the other side, a legion of SLAYER fans paying their respectful tribute to a legend - and also a man instrumental in bringing us the ditty 'God Hates Us All'. Your personal religious leanings aside, you have to admit the humour in it all. I'd be standing in the middle, photo bombing the fuck out of the proceedings with my little poster "We're All Fags?" I'd also be wearing my running shoes and be warmed up already, completely committed to proving that flight is always better than fight...

Then there are all these pleas (including photographs, importantly) to look out for this guy and that guy at animal shelters as they are accused of "fostering" or "adopting" dogs in order to use then for baiting in dog fighting organisations. Looking at these pictures, it's more likely that they're on a high speed bee-line home to their date with the jar of peanut butter. But. Once again, all jokes aside, surely these people deserve our most hateful vengeance. Fuck human rights. It's been postulated that people found guilty of sex crimes should be used instead of the more traditional animal testing. I propose using these c*nts as well. And anyone involved in any way with the heinous business of dog fighting. My soul cries.

Let's see, what else is shit? Ah yes... A month or so ago I had a minor revelation, whilst keeping track of the various new phone deals on offer. You know, the ones that offer huge gift vouchers in exchange for another 2 years of remaining a techo-tard... I'm quite comfortable with not having a super-smart phone. They're just hastening our transition to Wall-e people anyway. So I thought to myself "Yoh! This particular deal has been going on for so long now, I think I should take it now, 2 months before my current contract runs out. The extra bit I pay in will be nothing compared to the eventual bonus..." And just as I finally convince myself it's time, after some umming and ahhing, the deal is nowhere to be found anymore. Motherfucker! Great! Now you think I'm a blasphemer AND a cheapskate!

Now before you get your panties in a bunch, please take this with a pinch of salt. You know I'm not bigoted against anyone. Except cellular telephone deal makers and breakers... I just like to point out humanity's little funny bones. If you take offence at something like that, you're clearly reading the wrong blog.

And on that note, let's see if I can remember a few things for which I am grateful...
In no particular order:

1. Peoples' inability to tell me to my face, or my inability to comprehend their pleas that I stop, concerning my "cat sex" guitar playing.
2. The fact that The Hot Girlfriend is still alive.
3. Doom Metal.
4. Friends and family, especially all the colourful characters so often referred to in this silly little blog.
5. My nifty little wine collection.
6. A certain plane ticket I have in my hot little hands, which I'm going to use in June.
7. Lolita, Jenni, Jill, Bonnie, Liezel, Elise, Julie (R.I.P), Melissa, Bernadette, Lucy (on loan) and my four other darlings.
8. My health, wealth and happiness.
9. Living in permanent paradise. Except when it's holiday season and we're invaded by foreigners.
10. Very tolerant neighbours.

There's way more where that came from, I'm just getting lazy now...

NGDG: [Neal's on holiday.]

Spread The Love. The Westboro Baptist Church Needs To Be Shown How.

TOO MUCH PORN?

The glory that was my weekend - a short report:

Friday I played football. For a change I actually played, instead of losing the fight with gravity and style. I managed to score 4 goals in a display that would have Sir Alex Ferguson rethinking his retirement from the game just so he could sign me to my beloved Manchester United.

A quick shower, and 2 even quicker beers later, I was kindly but firmly evicted from my home in order for the gaggle of gigglers to get their party started. I left with a sense of foreboding and dread second to none. It's amazing what a steak dinner and a glass of good wine can do for your worries. I returned home from supper with the folks totally prepared for the holocaust that I was expecting at home...

...instead I got three little owl-eyed couch potatoes and 2 already asleep inebriates. I was almost disappointed. Very surreptitiously checking for material damage I poured myself wine and joined them to watch the end of a movie, before everyone called it a night. Dismal, ladies... dismal! The youth of today...

Saturday I was woken by the excited chatter of one of the guests blathering on about some entirely inconsequential shit ad nauseum. No amount of hugging pillows to head would cancel out the bone-saw quality of this diatribe, so I got on with getting on with the day. Next adventure, beach braai!

Meeting up with Tarty Farty Tequila Party and her band of miscreant followers, we got comfortable around the fire at Maiden's Cove, a beach resort nestled between Clifton and Camps Bay. More picturesque would be a tall order. Much laughter, banter, and braaing later, we dragged our weary, half sunburned arses up to what used to be La Med to experience the best post-sunset, most expensive beers, and worst service known to man. And quite naturally, as is inevitable with these things, a dispute about the fucking bill.

Sunday was Mother's day. We went to spend the day with the Mother In Law, and as is custom, ate far too much. A post meal coffee at my wonderful Mother's home and we were on our way to our own quiet evening in, having missed the quasi-religious routine of watching Top Gear and Modern Family on a Sunday afternoon. All was forgiven, though, as The Hot Girlfriend spoiled me rotten. She really is a treasure.

Moving swiftly along, before your curiosity gets the better of you and you start with your questionable speculation, tonight is going to be equally awesome. Rose Thorn is providing the pizza, TDB is supplying the technical expertise and I'm providing the inspiration in the form of wine, and alcohol-fuelled self importance. Yes, you guessed it. It's band practice night again! Can't wait. Mainly because it will, significantly, mean that I have made it out of my post-work run alive.

Anyway, that's me for the day. I'm going to spend the rest of the day dreaming up shit I want for my birthday, as everyone is hell bent on asking me.

NGDG: Just when you think happiness has something to do with love, financial security and not having to live in the East Rand, you see a billboard that says "Happiness Is Eastgate [Mall]".

Spread The Love. There Is A Light That Never Goes Out.

Eh, Pygmy Pants?

MUSIC - ART OR INDUSTRY?

 What the world listens to...

Well, for those of you who are privileged (or damned) enough to know me personally, you may think you know the answer. However... it is a trick question.

I humbly (hahaha! that's a laugh) submit to you, my faithful and fantastic readers, that it is indeed both. The difference between the two is the way you view music and the way it is created. I completely agree with those that would argue that it is true art. But you cannot be so naive as to imagine that it is not a blood-sucking industry as well.

This discussion came up when a friend of mine, let's call him Herb The Psychologist, asked if I agreed with the Bruce Dickenson meme that shits all over X Factor and its participants. Naturally, I do agree that the people who participate in these shallow, awful mockeries of everything I hold dear are nothing more than empty, hollow twunts hell bent on fame rather than the fulfilment of a deep passion for making good music. The world is a fast food joint. It's not their fault. But to judge them is to judge the entire industry side of music. It is in its very essence a very Jekyll and Hyde problem. Those of us that make music that pleases us are often upset with the perceived ill-gotten fame and success of the auto-tuned schmaltz that abuses our sensibilities. Similarly, we are insulted when we hear that these vapid starlets are supposedly so compelled to write quality tunes that they bleed for their "art". Simply put, horse shit. You want to know who could write a good tune? Martin Gore. And he never pandered to the masses, despite Depeche Mode's unrivalled success. Even the title 'Music For The Masses' was tongue in cheek...

Similarly, I cringe like a newborn enjoying his first taste of rancid vomit when a so-called "alternative" artist hides behind the comforting veil of the "underground" just because they're too crap to be allowed near an instrument and hopes no one will notice. (Before the comments start flying - I checked, I just about scrape in before that category...) Unfortunately, for every underrated, talented and wonderful musician and songwriter we have doing this for the right reasons, there are just as many worthless charlatans, whether they know it or not.

But it's Friday. I shouldn't be getting my panties in a twist (come on, baby!) about the whys and wherefores of it all. I should be looking forward to post-work Friday football. I should be salivating at the prospect of putting my feet up and enjoying a nice cold beer this evening. I wish. Tonight I am exiled from my house. The Hot Girlfriend is having a little get together. I've installed a webcam somewhere in the house. No one knows where it is. Or even that I have one. Let the games begin...

Anyway, in closing: Please do not confuse the love of creating and performing what I consider to be good music (using real instruments) - as pure an art form as you are likely to come across - with the industry-driven excuse pooped out of the Corporate Conveyor belt. These two are fundamentally different and mutually exclusive.

Now to go and find a way to sell one song at a time to collectors with mad cash to spend on a unique investment. Musicians - you're doing it wrong! People who make paintings are onto something!

And to Simon Cowell...

NGDG: I'd say "I told you so." But I kept it to myself at the start. And now it's all turned to shit for you in the end I'm too busy laughing.

Spread The Love. Your Mother. This Sunday.

STIMU-LATTE

For those of you who cannot operate properly or function without a cup of coffee to keep you going. Today is one of those days for me. Imagine my surprise when I woke up with a tribe of heathen cannibals attempting to recreate the musical Stomp in my head with 50litre oil drums and banjos strapped to their feet. Then imagine my startled realisation that I'd slept through the entire night without setting the alarm or latching the backdoor. Anything could have happened. ANYTHING!
I'm surprised I wasn't violently accosted or visited by a small furry animal. If the news is to be believed, I miraculously escaped certain death. What a relief, then, that the marauding gangs of criminals were otherwise occupied.

Speaking of criminal activity, last night's band practice was so good it bordered on being against the law! One day you will all be suitably (and celestially) blessed enough to share in the glory, but for now it is being hidden away from prying ears. Yes, let's go with that...

And speaking if the Criminally Insane, some good mates of mine have taken it upon themselves to organise a SLAYER (always written in capitals!) tribute show to honour the life and contribution of Jeff Hanneman. I think it's a splendid idea and I will definitely be in attendance, even if I was left out when the teams were picked. Like the fat nerd with no co-ordination or ball skills. Probably for the best, though. You don't want to remember the legacy of one of the greatest and most influential guitarists and bands in metal's illustrious and rich history, standing by while some lanky show-off mangles South Of Heaven beyond recognition. Details to follow.

So going back to this new invention of mine, the Stimu-Latte...
What do you think goes in one of those? Could it be Red Bull? Ginseng? Viagra? And what would you stir it with? Some phallic object? (I'd most sternly recommend caution when using your own phallic object on the grounds that the liquid might be too hot and you'd first need to blow on it...)
Do you think Starbucks would go for something like that? And would you take cream with yours?
I think I'm on to something here. I shall go and instigate some market research, especially since Cape Town has magically transformed itself into a coffee-connoisseur's heaven of late. Gourmet Coffee is the new Sailor Jerry and everyone is still wearing stupid hats. And since debauchery is high on the list of everyone's favourite things to promote about themselves, maybe my idea has a fighting chance...

Ag, what do I know? Can you tell I don't have anything of value to contribute today?

NGDG: I'm beginning to think a Playstation is like marriage. You get one because your friends have one and it's great for passing the time. But there are certain bits that annoy the hell out of you and you just can't win without Googling for cheats.

Spread The Love. Send Caffeine...

BITCHES BE CRAZY!

Daphne's frog kissing plan backfired rather spectacularly...

I have many, wonderful, varied, even bonkers friends. One such delightfully daft individual has been bestowed the honour of becoming my second honorary younger sister. She's an immensely talented, troubled little twerp and has finally made herself and her art available for all the world to see. Well, she rambles on about all sorts of batshit crazy, she takes beautiful pictures (except of course, for her fixation on birds) and occasionally even makes some sense. And then there's her guitaring and singing wizardry, which are both awkward and serene at the same time. She goes by many names, mostly inspired by her choice of hair colour that week; Strawberry Shortcake, Half Pint, and most recently Smurfette.

Go check out the mad musings and atrophic art of my little deranged genius sister.

Speaking of honest to goodness doolalliness, I am allowing an entire coven of hens into my abode this weekend. I know. It sounds like an orgy conceived by Hugh Heffner, but nothing could be further from the truth. For starters, I'm not even going to be there. Also, it's being organised by The Hot Girlfriend. Yes folks, she has successfully chucked me out of my own house so she and her girlfriends can have a slumber party. And I agreed...

Anyway, onto the other talking point of the day...

Sir Alex Ferguson has announced his retirement from his position as manager at Manchester United Football Club. He has been at the helm of one of the most legendary clubs in world football for 26 years and has won every trophy available, many several times. He is the most celebrated and decorated manager in the English game's rich history and worshipped by the legions of United fans the world over. I have had the good fortune to be a United supporter since 1981, so I've had the benefit of enjoying the success of his tenure in its entirety. I even have a few of his biographies. Interesting man...
Even if you're a fan of a rival club, you have to acknowledge his extraordinary achievements. Anything less would be juvenile jealousy. Yet still, the yobs, Scousers and ABU fans jeer and make tasteless jokes. If he'd been the manager of your club, you'd have hailed him the Messiah.
Anyway, this is my opportunity to say "Thank you. Congratulations. Your tenacity and your talent have done so much for so many, our gratitude and admiration will never be enough."

Unfortunately now we too have become victims of the never ending rumour mill. My sincerest hope is that the new incumbent is afforded the same courtesy as Sir Alex was back in the day in building a sustainable set up at the club we so love. Not like all these other one-hit-wonder, revolving-door-policy shit-shows...

And on that note, That's all folks. Don't be greedy - you've already had one post'o'drivel today. If you'd like to know more about the elusive clitoris, then that's one for you!

In order to redress the imbalance in Cape Town this evening, Little Spoon, LordDoom and I will be forging the darkest, deadliest blast-o-rama of goth/punk/industrial metal you're ever likely to hear. And you ARE likely to hear it too. Fear not, fingers have been dislodged from derrieres.

NGDG: Why do we like Game Of Thrones? Because the villains speak English, not some Hispanic patois comprised exclusively of F-words and gender slurs.

Spread The Love. I'll Be Homeless This Weekend.

CLITORIS AWARENESS WEEK

Look what Stan found...

Well now... That would explain why we have that little hooded girl-part performing in Cape Town this evening. Un-Beliebable? Belieb-it!

But enough of that little squirt (see what I did there?), at least he is more rock and roll than Jon Bon Jovi's wife, who is alleged to have orchestrated (or castrated) Richie Sambora's eviction from the latest Bon Jovi Colgate-sponsored world tour. Apparently he was drinking too much and was always surrounded by groupies. So much for "Sex 'n' Drugs 'n' Rock 'n' Roll". Lemmy, Nikki and Dave would probably have fatal shits if their management ever told them to cool it on the being cool. Whatever has become of this world?

What a sad state of affairs...

I, for one, pledge to make up for this heinous affront to all things rock 'n' roll, and remain the belligerent drunk you all know and love. And, whilst we don't really write too many songs about sex, at least we have that fateful night when Rose Thorn and I penned one of our hits concerning the vapid nature of some women, under the moniker "Clitoris Face and Johhny Winter". I think it was 3 in the morning, we'd just got home and she was wearing a likely-shade-of-pink poloneck. And we were stupendously drunk. I still have video evidence...

Which brings me conveniently to self flagellation. No, not that kind! Although, "Hi, welcome to my gutter..." seems an appropriate greeting. I'm talking about punishing yourself physically in order to coerce your shape to shift into something less natural than its current form. The Little Sister and far better half of the DSW has a theory. Our bodies settle on the shape with which they are the most comfortable. My dear ol' Mum disagrees. I fall neatly between the two opinions. So I run in order to justify sustaining my alcohol intake. I could just as easily cut the boozing and lose the boep, but then I'd be no better than "No-more-backstage-blowjobs-Bon-Jovi"...

So I ran. And I ran. And I ran. Yesterday. After work. Furthest distance yet, after which I took the long, but scenic road home and ended up buying 5kg of carrots for a Fruit'n'Veg employee. True story. But I can tell you this for nothing: "MY BIENE PYN!"

Tonight I forfeit the running in order to strap on my stove-fixing-belt and pray-it-works-beads, otherwise it's Snackwiches for me. And I'll get drummed out of Dinner Club faster than if I served Cucumber Surprise to The Carpenter. Or lamb pie to his wife...

Oh, and I inadvertently discovered 'twerking' on the YooToobz. My eyes are still bleeding and I despair for humanity. It's actually regarded as a skill...? The horrifying thought of one's offspring one day embracing such an awful thing doesn't bear thinking about. I'd add a link, but I wouldn't be able to live with the shame.

But I WILL add THIS. For you. On this week of weeks! Oh, go on! You know you're dying to find out...

NGDG: Soon I will be swimming in the sea. The beautiful powerful violent sea. For the first time in 3 years. This time without a madwoman on shore spoiling my fun.

Spread The Love. But First, Spread The Legs. 

BARE BUTTS AND OTHER SKULLDUGGERY

We truly are blessed. Tonight we get another band that appeals only to the nostalgic and to the people who have DSTV only for Supersport. Don't get me wrong, Bon Jovi was one of my favourite bands as a youngster. In the same way that John Parr was. Right up until I bought a Pop Shop record for the 'Saint Elmo's Fire' single and was immediately enlightened by Messrs Gore and Gahan. And thank goodness for that.
Then, hold onto your horses, we have one of the biggest stars in the music industry the very next night! Notice how I chose the words. I really feel for the cleaning staff on duty between the 2 shows. At least ol' Attie gets to save on set-up/strike-down costs. I also find it beyond precious that all the school kids have been warned against playing truant tomorrow.

And that is the problem with the youth today.

Missing a day of today's "education" will probably only benefit you.

I remember the day like it was yesterday... Messrs Gore, Gahan, Wilder and Fletcher were in their absolute prime, touring the world under the Devotional banner. I got to the Good Hope Centre at 8 in the morning. I partied and jostled for position all day. Except that half an hour it took to stumble up to Tech and randomly race through a multiple choice Chemistry test. Pfffft. Still passed. And then become part of one of the most glorious nights ever to have happened anywhere. Even my belt needed wringing out. And it wasn't even pee...

I wonder how many people attending tonight's concert will be dropping their kids off at the same venue tomorrow, disgusted and disappointed. Yet another reason not to procreate. Well, at least one day, when I'm all grown up and kids are an option... and I'm still able... with any luck they will be genetically predisposed to having something resembling decent music taste. Heaven only knows the absolute shit that'll be printed on every lunchbox in creation then. With any luck being tormented by years of listening to Daddy struggle, fumble and stumble his way through even the most rudimentary metal classics (and some rather morose home made tunes) my progeny will be the bad influence on other less enlightened kids at school. I'm hoping this is the case, as it'll probably get me out of many a school function or parent teacher type interaction.

Anyway, back to being blessed. The next "great" visitors to our beloved Mother City - and more specifically our great big White Elephant of a stadium - are a bunch as famous for nicking wheels off stationary cars as they are for harbouring fugitives of the racist cannibalistic kind. I'd like to see Luis Suarez try any of that shit on our local Ajax lads...

That's enough whinging from me for today. I'm almost off for a lovely little canter to Clifton and back, legs'n'lungs willing. And then I have to take the alternate route home, thanks to some shaggy haired relics in torn jean pants. And Bon Jovi...

NGDG: I discovered a new running route today. Yes, we're the last of the true explorers. Like Francis Drake. With our facial hair and tights.

Spread The Love. We're Halfway There.

A DIFFERENT KIND OF HAND-JOB

Thanks to Captain Clavicle for the pic.

You'd think that after a week off, and time to reflect, rest and smell all the roses on one's walk through life, that you'd come back to the salt mines invigorated, eager and with a new lease on life.

Not so.

If anything, time off serves merely to illustrate how fucked we all are. It pulls into sharp contrast our everyday working lives and our lazy, self absorbed holidays. Getting up this morning was murder. Being stuck behind this screen all day has been a nightmare. Gee-whizz, I hope the world miraculously changes its taste and buying ethics very soon so that I can make music for a living.

At least I was spared the never ending, inane news. And the daft jibber-jabber that is social media. Didn't miss it in the least. And of course the one piece of news I do get is the sad and tragic news that a music icon and one of my all time heroes passed away. RIP Jeff Hanneman, your influence on my life was immeasurable, not just for the riffs you wrote or the band you were in, but the influence you had on so many other bands that have also shaped my life. Your riffs were SEISMIC and your contribution to the deranged panic plastered across the faces of suburban parents the world over, priceless.

Anyway, for those of you bereft of something resembling a life, how about I give you a brief run down of my holidays.

1. I slept late.
2. I finally (...finally...) hammered/bolted/nailed/glued/coaxed the last of the kitchen cabinets into permanent place and lo and behold, now suddenly the fucking stove top won't work. Dismantle/swear profusely/give up/call a professional - happening soon.
3. Did a lot of garden surgery - then was told it is completely the wrong time of year to do so.
4. Discovered an awesome movie called 'The Perks Of Being A Wallflower'. Great soundtrack.
5. Also discovered I'm rubbish at plastering, and promptly gave up halfway. Swore profusely. Going to call a professional soon.
6. Inexplicably survived without Faeceboobs, Twitter, Skype or online news.
7. Braaied.
8. Drank.
9. Installed new blinds in bedroom, thanks to Rose Thorn. This contributed largely to the sleeping in, as they are 'black out blinds' and I awoke mid afternoon most days thinking it was still the dead of night.
10. And to top it all off, like the proverbial cherry on the cake, I gave my mechanic all my money to transform my car into a not-deathtrap once more.

I didn't do any running, though. I am currently filled with a sense of foreboding and utter dread, as I am committed (or should be) to my post work calamity-of-flailing-limbs. I just know I'm going to kak off. Oh well, with any luck I'll make it all the way there and back without losing a lung (although dignity may be less of an option) and get home in time for a shower and band practice. After which I hope I can find something that I can heat up in the microwave...

And that, folks, is all I have for you today. I was hoping to bring you more exciting news, reviews and interviews, but my mind is like a sieve and um... wait a minute... what was I on about...

Boobs! That's it! Boobs! Wonderful, wonderful boobs!

NGDG: I went to a mid-day movie at the cinema. The only other patron was the cleaning lady, who'd gone there to eat her lunch. Early retirement is lame.

Spread The Love. Use Both Hands.