NO WONDER THEY'RE CALLED "MEMBERS" OF PARLIAMENT

The HOFF - illustrating the dynamics of a black hole.

You cannot unsee that!

So, Friday then, you say! Well, I don't know about you fine collection of... hey! Stop staring at the Hoff's recurro-sack! Where was I? Oh yes. Friday. A sprinkling of irreverence, a light at the end of the tunnel and that first post work beer so close you can taste it...

Sound good?

Fuck it's difficult typing with the Bay Watch Boomslang coming at me the whole time!

Also, in a radical departure from my normal structure I am going to wish a few good people happy birthday before the end of the post (assuming I find something to write after this - let us pray...). Firstly, it is my great pleasure to give a long distance shout out to the wonderful, whimsical and all-round awesome Princess Pants! Happy happy from the heart of my bottom! I hope you have the most awesome day. It's a tragedy that you have chosen to forsake us by introducing such a great distance between us.
Also to the Sound Guy Extraordinaire, hope you're rocking your milestone, sir!
And for tomorrow, to my good friend JDP. Veels geluk liewe maaitjie. In the parlance of your people: "Main." The pic above is just for you...

Ok, seeing as we can't avoid it anymore, let's discuss how the politicians in this country we all hold so dear are taking the piss, defecating on the legacy we were all so proud to embrace in '94. I don't think we're in for wholesale anarchy and plunder the minute Madiba actually drifts loose this mortal coil. That shit's already happening. And they're pretty fucking bald faced about it to boot. No, what bothers me is the imminent political fiasco that is no doubt going to follow hot on the heels of our nation's father's passing. Already the family is doing the vulture-hop around his still warm body, in a re-enactment of any number of tacky 80s films dealing with inheritance. And now some utter shitgargler has banned the DA from participating in a prayer vigil for Mandela in Tshwane (wherever the fuck that is...). Thanks for perpetuating the divide, you ignorant cumrag.

In fact, this gentleman put it all into perfectly logical perspective. Thanks, MSG... Fucking brilliant!

Anyway, let me not get too worked up. I have a fantastic weekend ahead of me. Curry, movies and The Hot  Girlfriend all to myself tonight. After footie, of course. Then braaing in the burbs tomorrow. Then who knows what secret delights Sunday holds? Could be anything. Could be nothing...

Have a safe weekend, everyone.

NGDG: Mandela is like The Matrix. There are those who say 'BESTMOVIE EVA!' There are those who urge you to judge it in light of the whole trilogy. You don't want to be these people. Just know they won't remake The Matrix in your lifetime. And we're all very relieved that it wasn't another Johnny Mnemonic.

Spread The Love. Go Hug An ANC Member.

UNKNOWN PLEASURES

So apparently Deftones will be playing at One Night In Cape Town, as expected. The Mother City is a'plutz with excitement and the weird and wonderful ticketing site the organisers have chosen to go with doesn't seem to be handling the volume of orders very well. But that is neither here nor there. I get to see them without having to travel a million miles to the border of Zimbabwe. I know my friend the Voi Vixen is very happy. Anyway, after reaffirming my faith in their brand of music with Diamond Eyes, I'm there like a bear. I just wish I could find the review I wrote on that album - seems the site which originally hosted it is down. Fokkit. So be it. I think I'll survive.

Your entertainment news for today:

Ok, some of these genres I haven't heard of yet, but this is pretty asstastic and darn funny. These two guys make a song that spans 26 genres within 3 and half minutes. Lawd have mercy!

And I wasn't going to comment, but this little gem from our very own SABC News really just plops the cherry right on top of yesterday's kakverhaaltjie.

Oh, and speaking in the mother tongue, the new FOBLO Bulletin is out. Anne Hirsch, you beauty.

Well, there's really nothing much else on which to opine. My carnival of flailing limbs is temporarily on hiatus while my injuries are given a chance to get better. (I put my neck out lifting my head off the pillow... don't laugh.) Hopefully by this time tomorrow I'm ready to prance around like a gazelle - I have football to play!
And tonight is yet another instalment of that hallowed tradition known as dinner club. In other words it's someone else's turn to feed me full of food and booze. Halle-Loob-Jizz!

Oh yes, and then there's Gumtree. I went on there earlier looking for a beginner guitar for a mate of mine's daughter (she of the lemon incident) and happened upon a treasure trove of second hand wonders. If I didn't have to pay off that damn stupid fucking shitty extra flight ticket, I'd have been in possession of a little some'n some'n...

There you are, walking around all rebellious in your high-heels, mohawk, pop-up collar, eyeliner and cuffed sleeves. I know what you're thinking. You're all steeped in history aren't you? And there's a good reason...

Well, yesterday was the very strongly worded email (I'm such a keyboard activist) to Kulula. So that means today I have to recalculate all of the Cape Town City Council's attempts at working out billing from "actual" meter readings. Motherfucker! Like Aaron Stainthorpe says: "The pain never stops..."

Also, please go and visit Terminatryx's indiegogo account. They're busy recording what promises to be a great album and you can secure your copy by paying in advance! Imagine! You'll get your grubby paws on it and you'll already have forgotten paying for it. That's like getting it FOR FREE! And who doesn't like free stuff!?!

Anyway, you may have noticed that I have left this post in as many paragraphs as humanly possible. Only to annoy Neal Goldwyer.

But I'm still quoting him. He's like South Africa's own Oscar Wilde.

NGDG: Yesterday a recruitment consultant criticised every choice I've ever made, told me what I'm doing wrong in my life, and tried to push me into the same shit that's made me miserable for 5 years. (To quote Chris Rock: "Carreer? Most people I know just got jobs, muthafucka!") Don't give me advice. I'll hate you.

Spread The Love. I Want More.

A COUNTRY IN THE CRAPPER

Max Du Preez's diet proved too effective.

Well then. The theme for the day seems to be the disgusting state of the floor at Cape Town International Airport. Yes, folks! In yet another desperate attempt to destabilise the only working local government in South Africa, the bussed-in ANC masses - merely in our fair province as voting fodder - have taken to showing their disapproval of their living conditions by dumping pooh all over the place. It's not bad enough that Cape Town International was built adjacent to a very large sewerage works, and that international visitors got a foul whiff of lovely percolating shit as a first impression, now the disgruntled fecal freaks have flung dung even closer - ON the actual welcome mat...

Imagine what our tourists from Europe and Gauteng must think!

First off, the very people responsible for this shit shower are those that have been imported from "forn" parts so that Zuma can drag the legacy of the rainbow nation through his arse here as well. Instead of concentrating on uplifting the quality of life of those his party represents in parts of the country where it is their responsibility, it is clearly more important to create problems here in the Republic of Cape Town. One wonders how the culprits enjoyed bringing the offending matter in open plastic bags in their cars to the airport-a-potty. Can you imagine! "Drive faster, man! This kak stinks kak bad! Put foot, ek se!"

And then Mr Hanky and his entire extended family went for a swim at International Arrivals. We mustn't discriminate.

Afrikaans is such a wonderfully expressive language. No other tongue can quite so eloquently say "Nou is die drol in die drinkwater..." or like the one local newspaper "ANC jeugliga gooi poef in lughawe". Jeug, indeed!

Anyway, enough of this kakpraat. Although I will admit to finding any juvenile pooh jokes perpetually amusing. As do most of you, don't even try and deny it. That's like saying you don't enjoy sex. Although, in this context, let's keep the two well separated please. All you '2 girls - 1 cup' freaks can wait til the Wimbledon Women's Lawn Tennis Final for your jollies.

It's almost as if there hasn't been enough fucking excitement involving air travel and taking a shit already...

And speaking of which, why are we being required to do a whole flag vibe for the imminent visit of President "Fuck you I kill you!" Obama? What's he doing here anyway, we don't have oil and Oprah already did something magnanimous for us. Or perhaps we have just completely misunderstood the airport's new interior decoration as a tribute to welcome the world's Chief Turd.

Thank you for visiting our beautiful land. Salani Gahle! Baie Dung-kie!

NGDG: I actually cannot read articles on iOL. Is it a symptom of our tweeting, ADD-addled generation that young reporters automatically feel compelled to start a new paragraph after every sentence?

Spread The Love. Chuck Your Kak!

SUCK MY...

...CLOCK.

There's a positive deluge of international acts streaming to our little red-neck black-out neck of the woods. Eskom had better be on high alert, lest yet another unscheduled load shedding lay waste to the last vestige of  respect the outside world has for us. Deftones at Oppikoppi, and all indications are One night In Cape Town as well. Let's hold thumbs. Mainly because of the biblical shitstorm that will ensue should the organisers be brave enough to deny Cape Town their slice of Chino. All I can surmise is that they aren't naive enough to wait until it's too late, forcing people to book their OppiKoppi arrangements and only THEN let the cat out of the bag...
Then we hear today that Skunk Anansie and The Hives are coming as well. Rocking The Daisies and Vodacom City Night (or something like that in Jhb). The Hives... what I used to get when I got to deep into Obz. As for Skunk Anansie - I'd definitely go and watch them again. They were fantastic the last time they graced our little fishing village and I'm still a big Skin fan. Talk about a set of pipes!

Anyway, the hysteria of this morning is over and we're sitting here in Cape Town enjoying some nice watery sunshine. Long may it last, although all bets are off.

Fuckin' hell! You know you're a bit brain dead when you enter the search criteria for something work related into the login cell of the site you need to get into. I think I need some fresh air. Perhaps a brisk trot around the block would do me the world of good. Oh yes, now I remember. Can't. Neck injury. I'm flippin' falling apart here...

I think I'll try and extract money from Kulula, although I would probably have more luck convincing an American that Morgan Freeman isn't the ex-president of South Africa. I'm bored shitless, but I don't know if I have the energy to deal with the inevitable underpaid moron who couldn't give a fuck I'm going to encounter on the other end of the line. If I was forced to do work like that, I'd alleviate the overwhelming suicidal tendencies by granting refunds all day long and then watching the supervisors lose their shit. It's got to be better than learning the Spur Birthday song... And all that callanetics in OutSurance offices...
In reality, I bet most call centre employees spend the majority of their day huddled in their grimy cubicles playing Solitaire and trying desperately not to catch their neighbour having a surreptitious wank. Again.

And so the status quo continues. No, little darlings, I am not referring to half of what someone else originally said being plastered on your Faecesbooks. Look it up.
The lamentable descent of the Rand ensures another hefty petrol price hike come month end.
The deplorable state of our government and its contemptible, bald-faced corruption.
A youth with no prospects other than becoming Wall-E humans.
Rampant and cruel abuse of anything and everything over which we have any control.
Domestic violence.
War in the name of peace.
War in the name of religion.
The plight of the song writer, especially when faced with the monumental odds - up against the corporate sanctioned murder and mutilation of music.
Wholesale stupidity and apathy. (I know, I know... the irony coming from a Cape Town native...)
YoLandi Vi$$er's haircut.

Little wonder I prefer to stay in, then...

If you could all please say a little player for me as I stride out with brittle confidence that taking on Kulula will make an iota of difference. Hands Across 'Murica!

At least we have something to celebrate on this murky day. It's Rose Thorn's birthday! Happy birthday, you wonderful, beautiful human being. My life is a constant celebration for having you in it!

NGDG: There are bits of hair that are a midget's middle finger from fitting into a ponytail. Yeah. Your mother likes it.

Spread The Love. Starting With A Neck Rub.

THAT'S THE BUNNY

Thumper didn't realise just how prophetic her choice of play name would be...

Not like The Easter Bunny, obviously. Far too much chocolate and egg hunting and other forms of nefarious activity. No, I'm talking about good, wholesome bunny fun. The kind of stuff found in children's books, not the more sordid or risque publications favoured by Jim's dad for sex ed. That being said, bunnies do have a certain reputation to uphold.

As you may or may not have picked up, there is precious little on which I'd like to speculate or report today. All you need to do to find out what the weather is doing is turn on Faeceboobs. And yes, we all wish that mainstream media and the vulture-like family would leave this nation's icon the fuck alone so that he may go in peace and with a modicum of dignity.

I did get into a brief debate concerning the local alternative "scene" earlier, and thought briefly about taking that a bit further on these here hallowed pages, but then you've heard it all before from me. If you weren't paying attention, well, scroll back.

At least we had a pretty good weekend. Princess Pants was visiting from The Big Shitty, I played awesome footie on Friday evening in that exact hour that it didn't rain, developments on the band front look more and more promising, The Little Teapot had a party and I spent all of yesterday with an injured neck. I feel right old...

Let's see. Saturday's party. Started off all civilised-like with pre-drinks at my house. You know that's a kak idea. And it was. Well, it was a glorious idea, until the business end of the next morning, of course. A wonderful time was had by all, at my spot and at the gig at ROAR. It was loud, there was a lot of hair and hollerin'. And of course, a lot of drunken revelry.

Then there was the little soiree for The Little Teapot. Hosted expertly by Herr Grun at his new digs, the set of The Blair Witch Project, should the lights go out one day. I kept expecting a snot spouting terrified teenager to come bounding out from behind the avo tree.

And after a whole bunch of driving around, doing my finest impersonation of a stiff scarecrow or a Tory MP, I finally settled into a few beers at home with a potential new co-conspirator. Things they is a happenin'...

Then I overslept this morning.

See, I told you there's nothing to see hear. Please move along.

At least Princess Pants didn't do an Idiot Deluxe and miss her flight.

NGDG: Scientists say that people who will live past 100 are alive today. Hope it's not me, because that means there's another 30 years of midlife crisis up ahead. And ain't nobody got time for that.

Spread The Love. What Noise Do Bunnies Make?

PARDON ME, DO YOU HAVE ANY GREY POUPON?

Melinda forgot to take evasive action at her first rainbow party...

Not today, my good man. Today I'm feeling saucy! Schwing!

Last night's soup kitchen outing with Tarty Farty Tequila Party was once again a resounding success. We met at the Wild Fig (the scene of the Big Flap of 2013) and were treated to a variety of soups in front of the roaring restaurant fire - perfect winter evening warmth and enjoyment. The fact that I was washing it down with ice cold Amstel didn't even register...

And speaking of being irreverent... Because it's Friday and all...
We're busy sorting out the stupid PC of a colleague of mine. It's proving to be painful. I hate the fucking things. So I look around on the net out of a sudden acute case of "Oh shit! Best I try and make myself as inconspicuous as possible", I happen upon this little gem...

Ladies and gentlereaders, I give you Canada's latest attempt at world domination: The Pluk Party. That's like, real life Ken Park shit. I really missed out in my youth. First "rainbow parties" and now this. Fuck. We only had spin-the-bottle... What's next? Your kids will probably have plug'n'play tug'n'spray apps on their smartphones. It's all getting scarily Sandra Bullock mind fucking Sly, isn't it?

Anyway, that's me. I'm spent. I don't want to be here and I can feel it. At least The Hot Girlfriend is over her unfortunate bout of "exams" and Princess Pants is coming to visit. And I'm off to play football in this ghastly weather. And then to eat out with the Father for his birthday. Life, eh? The cherry on the cake, however, is the gig tomorrow night at ROAR. Come and make sure we get rid of Wildernessking for good (and say hi to Princess Pants and the rest of the Get Along Gang) by joining me at this event. Bring earplugs. It's gonna get loud...

...mainly because my Brother-In-Awe is going to be there and he knows where the bar is. Tarty also promised...

NGDG: Discovery Health AGM. Seven hours and no food. Let's kill all the members because suicide, boredom and starvation aren't PMBs that we're legally obliged to reimburse.

Spread The Love. Organise A Rainbow Party For ALL Your Friends.

KEEP CALM AND ON YOUR KNEES.

Well, there you have it then...

After exhausting my supply of news in one super-post yesterday, prepare yourself for all manner of nonsense and ear bleeds today.

I recently rediscovered 'Superbad'. It's a movie. It's as funny as hell and I do not apologise to any of my more learned friends or siblings for my appreciation of its crass humour. Especially the part where the fat kid with the afro gets tomato sauce on his leg.

Dooswyn is from now on to be referred to as Cardbordeaux. It is brilliant! It has been decreed. Thanks, New Orleans!

In the only pertinent news of the day - tah tah dah daaaaaah! - the latest D'aaaaw-Win Award goes to LordDoom and Princess Pants. Their incessant cooing has won them the latest instalment (it's only the second of all time, I think) of the much venerated award. Congrats, you two. Bask in the warm glowing warming glow.

And then we get to marketing focus groups. I love 'em. The person who convinced marketing companies to part with vast sums of money so that "demographically selected" groups of civilians can sit and nod, while being fed snacks, should run the world. Now that is marketing genius! Last night I made money simply for showing up, eating food, and telling someone in a smarmy suit and a false smile I couldn't afford his whisky. Oh, and being white and a drinker and the right age. And apparently because I own a dishwasher. Weirdos...

And tonight I once again swan about pretending to be larney when I join Tarty Farty Tequila Party on her quest for the perfect Winter Warmer Soup Experience. It happens to be at one of my all time favourite restaurants, so things are already off to a good start. It's attached to quite a fancy whisky bar as well. I'm quite certain the possibilities are endless. And that The Doors never get played there.

Speaking of Swans. Little Spoon! Fuck you! I looked up the line up for Hellfest. Good luck bumping into all those metal heads with your gigantic perma-boner. I should really have paid more attention when you were wittering on about going to France. I hope there are timing conflicts between your favourite bands, playing on different stages at the same time, and your head explodes. Nah! Actually I'm just super jealous. Hope you get to see everyone you want to see and have an awesome time! Le chat et sur le table.

Which brings me to more frustrating and irritating news. The cd I ordered for the Brother-In-Awe has finally arrived. Customs is holding the package hostage. Shitgarglers.

As always, it's been a huge pleasure.

NGDG: It's in the beast's instinct to chase. That being said, I discovered today that it's in your instinct either to outrun the rottweiler or find out if your medical scheme is the right one for you.

Spread The Love. With Atta-Girl Knee-Pads.

PRINCESS PANTS AND THE MOST EXPENSIVE POOH EVER.

Howdy. D'ya miss me?

I've been away. I've adventured in far off lands. I've consorted with the natives. I even managed to refrain from greeting everyone with the immortal phrase "Rolux Magnum!" And although my bar side banter was as pithy as hell, I wasn't wearing a hat.

Yes, I was in your and my favourite city, Johannesburg. To be present for the most auspicious of occasions, the wedding of the Meyodies. And to make sure in person that the magnificently beautiful bride, Lissa, made an honest woman out of my friend, The Meyer Of Awesomeville. Which she did, and in some style I might add. Their vows had us in tears and in hysterics. The entry procession was heralded by The Cure. The gorgeous bridesmaids danced down the aisle as TMOA stood their grinning like a poephol watching his soon to be wife barely held back by her proud dad. The ceremony was very capably handled by the groom's eloquent brother and the poignant reading equally so by his sister. (I'm not going to tell you what it was, but it couldn't have been more perfect.)

Not only were the newly-wed couple the most handsome and happy 2 people alive, but the entire vibe was glorious, helped on in no small amount by the free-flowing booze and even more free-flowing love. I hope that one day my wedding is as memorable and magnificent as theirs, and I am proud to have been a part of it, even if just from the bar. And an added bonus to the proceedings was that I got to catch up with some old friends and acquaintances. The PyeGye and BlondeBassistBabe - awesome seeing you guys again! Furthermore I finally got to meet the Immortal Neal Goldwyer, whose wit is as legendary as is his ability to entertain. What a time we did have! There was even a tipple or two involved. Also, Michelle and Michal, pleasure to have made your zany acquaintance. Even some famous tattoo-er faces from Cape Town...

I was, for the entire long weekend, ever-so-graciously hosted at The Dormer-tory by none other than the wonderful Princess Pants. I was treated to breakfasts, beer and late night chats that have left me virtually catatonic from needing to catch up on so much rest. I was also treated to a thorough tour of the entire city - thanks to the miracle of GPS - and an almost constant string of expletives that would leave a sailor contemplating some concrete boots in False Bay. Thanks so much for the hospitality and the chauffeuring, and everything else as well.

Sunday was greeted with bleary eyes and vague recollection. We made our way off to TSAR and ASH for a lovely Sunday roast lunch. The perfect way to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon, loosening one's belt while splayed all over the most comfortable sofa known to man. Well, this man.
Sunday evening was earmarked for a "quick" catch up drink with school friends of mine who have been married since forever and deserted the lush playground of Cape Town for the dreary and the drab. Or so I thought. Pulling into their driveway, I was convinced we were at the wrong place until my buddy sauntered out to greet us. It was like I'd seen him yesterday, when the truth is more like 16 or 17 years ago. His wife possibly even longer, as evidenced by her screaming and almost tackling me to the paving. Well, one drink turned into two, and two very quickly became the most pleasant all-night-long affair I've experienced in many moons. KikiSquared - you guys rock! Thanks for a wonderful evening - I hope that we get another opportunity sooner rather than later.

Monday was set aside for a lunch with DrHellCuz and we ended up at the Randburg Waterfront, as you do. It's more like a large Crazy R5 Chinese Shop mall with a stringy pond and some ducks. Nevertheless, there we sat, attempting to set new records in offensive language, both in volume and frequency. Family restaurant my arse. Making damn sure we'd be at Lanseria on time, we bade our hurried farewell and scooted off in Elna.
Getting to the airport with oodles of time to spare, we settled in for one last pint. When the nice lady who lives in the speakers summoned my flight, we threw back our last sip, walked the 30m to the door, said our farewells and that was that. Deciding on a quick "rest stop" before the awkward "mile high in the movie house" bathroom trip, I ducked into the nearest bog. After which I took a brisk walk over to my boarding gate, eager to get home after a wonderful weekend.
In an ill-advised attempt at suicide, the bespectacled gate-keeper informed me that I had missed my flight. I was stunned - initially thinking he was taking the piss. The more I asked "Are you joking?" the more serious the situation became. The plane's doors were already closed and the mobile staircase already moving away, and despite being only 10m metres from the plane there was nothing legal I could do.

Trudging back to Kulula's sales desk in the depths of despair, I finally felt what it was like for the apparently pious to make the arduous journey to Hell after having been regrettably denied entrance through the Pearly Gates. Part confusion, part despair, part rage and part highly befuck with myself and frustrated beyond belief, I eventually managed to board the next and only plane the fuck out of there. My Sister and far better half of the DSW to the rescue - I am grateful for the support structures that hold my life together and keep me from committing homicide and/or harakiri.

I'm glad to be home. And fuck Kulula. They'll hear from me when I have the strength to deal with their shit.

Anyway, other than the extra ticket cost, the weekend could not have been more enjoyable. Thanks to each and every one of you incredible people for everything. The only thing that could have made it better, would have been if The Hot Girlfriend could have joined me. Next time...

Oh, and I got to see Eddie Izzard last night. For the second time. Fucking awesome!

So, we're back in the swing of things. And surprise, surprise, the fucking Proteas are at it again. One wonders if they should practice a bit more fellatio on each other - that way their gag reflex wouldn't force them to choke every bloody time...

NGDG: If I ever get banned from square one, I'm in deep shit.

Spread The Love. Even to the Joburgers.

TOSIN... OR NOT TOSIN...

That is the question. Whether it is nobler to suffer the jealous glares of your friends, or to laugh heartily at their good natured chorus of  "Fuck you!"s. What a night last night was!

You're probably wondering if I've finally managed to evade the meds altogether...

Context, then, if you insist: Last night, along with every other aspiring guitarist/masochist, The Hot Girlfriend and I attended a guitar clinic presented by Tosin Abasi from Animals As Leaders. To exclaim wildly that he (and they) are front runners in the more esoteric tech/djent metal genre would be to subtly suggest that Julius Malema is mildly annoying. He plays an 8-string monster. I lie. He MOLESTS an 8-string monster and exposed the collective tonsils of the packed crowd gathered in awe in front of him. He is, quite simply, the most mind-numbingly mesmerising guitarist I have ever had the discomfort and pleasure of seeing perform. Watching him was simultaneously inspiring and depressing. And he's an engaging and entertaining host to boot! What that man did to that poor beast slung over his shoulders defied description and belief!

Anyway, at the end of his demonstration and Q&A, Ibanez sweetened the pot with a guitar giveaway. And not just sommer any old guitar! An Ibanez RG870SPZ-BKF (Premium). So there I was, minding my own business, chatting to a drummer friend of mine about some possible collaboration work, when every friend of mine gathered in front of me turned on me like a pride of wounded lionesses and started screaming their heartfelt hatred. It transpires that The Hot Girlfriend had won this little guitar and I was suddenly the focus of so much rage and jealousy that I literally had to wash the spit-fuelled vitriol out of my hair later. Quite naturally, I took it all with a great big "Up Yours!" grin on my face. Well done! They're all just assuming I get to benefit because she doesn't play guitar. Well... whatever happens, the both of them went home with me last night! I felt like the Prom King! Thank you, Hot Girlfriend! Thank you, Ibanez! And thank you, Tosin Abasi!

Anyway, getting home, I resisted the temptation to smudge the autograph on the guitar and only tried her out a little bit. This afternoon, when I get home, it may be a little different. I'm sure the marker has had time to dry properly...

Then later, it's once again my turn to Martha Stewart for the masses. But you'll have to wait until Tuesday to find out how that went, or miss out altogether. This weekend I jet off to attend the wedding of the glorious, gorgeous Meyodies. Fuck, if ever there was a couple that OWED humanity children, it's them. The combination of their respective attributes cannot be overstated!

Plus, I get to drink with this guy:

NGDG: I dated a swimsuit model once. First date: she was so drunk she forgot. Second date: so boring I forget. Third date (because you'd still tap that): she reveals herself as a horrible racist. Like Hitler in La Senza.

Spread The Love. Oooooh! Gonna Fondle Her Neck! And That Curvy Bod!

IT'S LIKE LOOKING INTO THE EYES OF A DUCK.

No reason. Just because. Sure it'll piss some folks off.

OR

The REAL reason anyone goes to Trance Parties.

OR

What politicians and financial institutions see when looking from their ivory towers at their constituents.

Or something similar. That soul vacuum feeling. Not the "hey my soul hase been hoovered clean" feeling, the one where your entire essence has been deposited down a black hole without any hope of retrieval.
Perhaps I should write a song...

Ag, it's not that bad, before you start dialling emergency numbers. Not that it'll do you any good in this forsaken fucking place. And by this place I am rapidly expanding my definition beyond the borders of our beloved republic. At least we can still joke about how fucking useless everything is. Imagine living on the banks of the Ganges, or even worse, the Potomac...

I blame Endemol. Look what they started. Who needs barcodes?

Anyway, you probably want to hear about my exercise routine and how much I had to drink. Yes, and yes. Although the former is becoming increasingly easy to imagine with the aid of a rocket-driven zimmer frame.
But I will tell you this...

This weekend is a very special weekend indeed. This weekend I jet-set off to The Big Shitty (with Alphaville blasting in my ears...) to attend the most auspicious occasion this year. Yes folks, The Meyodies are tying the knot! The Meyer Of Awesomeville is going to "enhance his awesome" by wedding the lovely (as in "you lucky, lucky bastard!") Lady Lissa. It is an event that has been perched at the pinnacle of the social calender for months and I can't wait. Also, I get to rub shoulders with, like, total celebs n shit. Neal Goldwyer will be in attendance, making the potential merriment factor at the bar inconceivable. Anyone remember the blonde bassist that continually stole the show playing Awakening gigs? I'm pretty sure she's invited. And a whole host of other important people.

And speaking of important people, I also get to see DrHellCuz while I'm up there. And TSAR. And the cherry on the top is my stay at Hotel Real Life Smiley Face! Can't wait to see if there are mints on the pillows... [Translation: beer in fridge - actually I know that's already taken care of - probably in glorious abundance] Damn! This is going to be one awesome weekend! Only downside is I can't take The Hot Girlfriend along... But in the interest of passing exams and securing a degree which will go a long way towards my early retirement, I am prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice.

Tonight, everyone who fancies themselves a wee bit of a guitar slinger is gathering at Zula to enthuse over, and be mesmerised by, Tosin Abasi. Apparently he is some sort of 8-string guitar virtuoso and plays for something called Animals As Leaders. If I go, people will assume I'm at least competent enough to want to improve my playing and take me seriously. Here's hoping...

Anyway, another day, another death. I can't wait to get home and put my feet up and enjoy a beer. We'll see from there...

NGDG: Some Malawian robbed the shit out of a Dainfern teenager and the Cash Converters was full of rad new PS3 games for next to nothing. I couldn't decide so I bought one with the tanks spewing fire at a trench of nips.

Spread The Love. Julius Malema Needs YOUR Money To Appropriate YOUR Land.

DIRTY UNDERWEAR

In my last post, I started off with the very titillating, if entirely incorrect, title "FUCK YOU MICHAEL KEATON" and then added a picture of a young lady "going down" humorously on an escalator. What I meant to write, obviously (and I have since changed it to the correct name) is "FUCK YOU MICHAEL DOUGLAS". If you don't know by now that he has been doing his bit to curb the enthusiasm of teens the world over to indulge in 3rd base, then you live under a rock. Personally, and since I don't have a daughter, I am only pissed off that so-called rainbow parties did not exist in my youth. I don't think in my wildest fantasies that adolescent me would have known what hit him...

Anyway, the reason I write to you today is that I feel that I have been neglecting you, my dear, noble, honourable and literate reader(s). Well, truth be told, I have started feeling like I'm just writing for the sake of writing and that the content is becoming stale and predictable. That, and Tarty was nagging for some light entertainment while she chomped her sammitch on her lunch break.

But let me tell you a little story of a weekend, just so that L.I.Am can have a shit, since he so luuuuuurves it when people recount their recent adventures...

Nevermind Friday night and the awesome football. Never mind Friday night and the awesome evening I spent with The Hot Girlfriend.
Let us move straight onto the main course of hard drugs...
Got your attention, have I? Go watch Trainspotting.
Saturday I went shopping. I paid R9 for the privilege of traipsing my unimpressed arse all over the sticky halls of Canal Walk, only to emerge without a new phone contract. The reason? A glass-eyed sales clerk with the spark of a damp cum rag alleging that there was no literature on any of Game's (this includes Vodacom and Cell C) available deals. And none that could be accessed via that wonderful new invention called the intrawebnets. Wunderbra! Tit.
So, rather less impressed, I eventually pitch up at the Old Flat for an evening of revelry and phallic balloons - the purpose of which was to celebrate the dual birthday of that adorable couple: MSG & Dead Elvis.
Fuck, am I glad I didn't go to UCT...
Anyway, MSG was given a Fender Concord Nineteen-Voetsek acoustic guitar. Nice friends... A wee bit overcome, I thought he was going to have a mild seizure. Then Dead Elvis got some or other tickets for some or other show from her brothers and lots of hopping about happened. I love birthdays! Did I mention the huge cock-n-balls balloons? And the matching wrist cuff made from 1000 6-inch nails?

Sunday was an entirely more sophisticated affair, with another inevitable trek out to Tableau Voi, a suburb just aching to be washed to sea, having disregarded the Bible's most basic building principles. Picture it. Dressed appropriately in something straight from a Markhams catalogue, I stood there in water-colour Winter afternoon sun sipping an Amstel and admiring the freshly cut lawn and unpainted vibrocrete. Commander Conker, in his John Deere trucker cap (I shit you not - I couldn't make this up) did an exceptional job braaing enough meat to make at least 5 Lady Gaga ensembles. We spoke of cricket and the rand/dollar exchange rate. We planned shopping expeditions to buy hoodies. We listened to Rose Thorn complain and in the rarest of occurrences, aired the house out after My Sister set fire to whatever was cooking in the oven, rendering it so much ash. Also, I just realised the the words "stove" and "oven" share three consecutive letters. Guess who chose the wrong one first.

And don't get me started on the fucking pooh-flingers. Here's a question? If local government did provide more effective education, would the youth know better than to align themselves with the destabilising force that is the ANC Youth League? Or would historical president still compel then to affiliate themselves with the liberators of 20 years ago? The very same who have single-handedly managed to completely fuck up an entire country with the exception of the ONLY province in which they still fling pooh, merely because the anagram on the letterhead of State is wrong. It's funny, if the Western Cape were an independent republic, these people would be labelled terrorists and traitors. Ah, if only the ANC hadn't so effectively destroyed the rest of the country and its infrastructure, then so many disillusioned, disenfranchised and disadvantaged wouldn't come a knocking at our door, demanding double ply. Did you know, that of the 184 people arrested for illegally gathering, and transporting human feces on a public commuter train (with the express purpose of "dumping" it at the feet of our democratically elected Premiere) all are card-carrying members of the ANCYL? Or so the papers claim. Not one of them had a ticket either. Democracy, then, at its finest. We're all for it, as long as we win!

And speaking of democracy... We live in a land that was lauded, celebrated and saluted for triumph over inequality (at least in theory and the right to vote for the next corrupt bastard). Much of this, even most of this, success can be attributed solely to South Africa's so-called Father, Nelson Mandela, a noble and humble man that did more in his life for his people than anyone I can think of off-hand. He is 94 years old, well past his sell-by date, and the focus of a media frenzy every time he contracts the sniffles. In his old age and frailty, not only must he be disgusted by the systematic destruction of all he stood for and achieved in his life, the disgraceful way that even his family is hopping from one greedy foot to the other over his not-quite-expired carcass, but surely this great man is entitled to some privacy and dignity in his last days. Assuming of course these are his last days... Come on, South Africa. The man has done more for you than any man has done for anyone. How about showing some respect and allowing an icon some peace.

Fucking awful things, us human beings...

Except this guy.

NGDG:  Under different circumstances we could have been friends. Circumstances, you know, in which he wasn't such a little bitch.

Spread The Love. Not The Pooh.

FUCK YOU MICHAEL DOUGLAS...

Going down is good for you.

Yet another reason to continue my ongoing hate/hate relationship with Dave Cumstaine.
Fuck I hate BeggarBreath.

Anyway, onto today's huge big story. It has been announced that Deftones are playing at Oppikoppi this year. I love their later material, and know a lot of people who worship them. Buses are being planned already. I think the Voi Vixen fainted when I told her earlier...

However, once all the euphoria has settle into mild dribbling on oneself and the occasional rub "down there", a little switch in your mind is activated and you start to make sums. Mainly because you're already picturing yourself and a whole group of like minded fans enjoying an epic road trip and a dust bowl festival. Which brings you to the logistics. Leave will have to be booked. Cape Town's creative/design industry will come to a grinding halt. Transport will have to be sorted out. If you aren't part of a large group making their own arrangements, a plane ticket is probably your only option. Let's figure R2000 if you get in early enough. Concert tickets are a paltry R800 considering all the amazing local talent you get in the bargain, but an expense nonetheless. Then there's booze (face it, food is nary a consideration at these things... buy a burger with the change from your beer) - and if you're the average festival punter - the cost of 2 or 3 day's worth of pinting or any less legal alternative could leave you in more debt than the 4 years you spent at UCT or Stellenbosch. Ironically, where you picked up your addiction in the first place. Seems RLSF was right all along. It seems, even if you're a resident of the Big Shitty, to be a little pricey all of a sudden.

Which brings me to the obvious conclusion. Since it appears there will be a 'One Night In Cape Town' (offshoot of Oppikoppi's main festival) this year, do like last year and bring the international acts here. Last year was fantastic. I even got to interview that nice man from Budget For Vaginatime. And it turns out he's a really cool guy, even if I'm not a fan of the music.

I know. I talk a big game. Just you wait until they announce that The Cure is planning on a visit anywhere in sub-Saharan Africa. There will be flame trails in the dust...

Anyway, dear people of the South. Enjoy your weekends. I have a wonderful evening with The Hot Girlfriend planned. After football. Then tomorrow I hand my name in at the door of my old flat, as it's a double header birthday celebration.

And since I'm in a giving mood, here is some fucking SERIOUSLY awesome music. To you. From me. I give you The Eden House. I'm ordering my album next week, if anyone wants to go in with me. Round thing. Shiny. Found dangling off rear view mirrors. In taxis.
And if that doesn't rev your motor, well clearly you are in need of much cheering up. In which case you're going to need a heavy dose of FOBLO Bulletin. There's a second one as well... Deborah Patta - watch out!

NGDG: Vladimir Putin has split from his wife. Ladies, lock up your daughters. Before he does it for you.

Spread The Love. It's Like You Never Had Wings.

PROCRASTERBATION

Incentive to get on with your life RIGHT NOW!

What a fantastic word. Wanking about at life instead of getting shit done. Describes my week so far to a tee.
You missed me?

I have been very short on motivation this week. Possibly due to party induced fatigue. Possibly just not being able to muster the will to give a shit. Possibly just plain ol' fashioned laziness. Anyway, I'm back and I'm as bad as I've always been. Not like 'Felix the Cat'.

Before I launch into what will no doubt be a slightly exaggerated tale of all the shenanigans experienced this magical weekend past, I have to tell you what happened. I switched on the television. The news was on. Someone was flinging pooh. I switched the television off. Flinging pooh!?!?! Like, real pooh. I thought that only happened in Madagascar. Clothed or not, it seems we're still just primates. Kinda base, really...

Anyway, on with the dog'n'pony show...

Friday something happened. Oh yes, I found myself at The Armchair Theatre (or whatever version of the name it trades under now) to support The Hot Girlfriend's sister's boyfriend's band, CROAK. Now he has already made me want to throw up and give up. But I had no idea he was this generation's Steve Fucking Newman. What? This guy is insane! And then there's the singer... Some lass who couldn't be a more eclectic mix of Kate Bush, Bjork, Inge Beckmann and a host of others if she tried. It was pure, unrestrained, soulful, poetic music for lovers of the less commercial side of the art form. Parts awkward genius, parts fluid chemistry and parts stumbling and stubbing your toe, be sure to keep an eye out for this band.

Saturday started off with something more than mild surprise, as the very, very naughty Hot Girlfriend, clearly far too eager to wait for my actual birthday, presented me with the most extravagant gift I have ever received in my entire life. I was gobsmacked. Completely and thoroughly stunned and at a loss for words. I must be doing something right...

And then there was the inevitable party and all its shenanigans. Obviously, everyone tended to congregate in the kitchen, and a grand ol' time was had by all, louder than bombs and drunker than William H Macy in Shameless. Just the way I like it... To everyone who came out and shared this wonderful occasion with me, once again, thank you all!

Sunday was a little hard to deal with, as you can imagine. What with the Brother-In-Awe's pre-dawn snuggle in the wrong bed, sans underpants... Thank goodness my sister came to find him and drag him back to his rightful spot and put some pants on him! Anyway, later it was off to their place for a protracted boozy lunch and much jollification.

The rest is all a bit hazy, to be honest. Last night I ran like a hell hound - further and faster than ever before. One of these days, I'll be doing my Wally Hayward impression on a pavement near you!
Oh yes, and then there was band practice - surprise... surprise...

NGDG; Bleeding mammoths, Neanderthals with bone-cancer, and Game Of Thrones. If creationists had imagination and a sense of humour I'm sure one of them would remark that it's been a bad week to be a make-believe creature.

Spread The Love. There Are Still 15 Days Left To Celebrate.

YOU'VE MADE A HAPPY MAN REALLY OLD!

Thanks, Dead Elvis!

Just a quick one, since I am still in some sort of limbo after the awesome weekend I just experienced.
I'd like to thank one and all for their participation in my virtual destruction over the course of the last 3 days' partying. You all clearly still regard me as someone who can hold his booze and who likes to test the limits of his constitution. So far so good. I'll take your enthused confidence in my abilities as a good thing.

The birthday surprise from The Hot Girlfriend literally rendered me speechless. I have been taken by surprise like that before, but this was even more hectic. I must be doing something right...

And as for the gifts, laughs, larking about, photo-ops and loud, raucous debauchery that was my party, well, what can I say. Thanks to all that were there. If you weren't, you missed out, although you'd also have your mug emblazoned all over Faeceboobs with the phrase stuck next to it: "HE LOVES THE COCK". Ah, good times...

The Greek even stuck money in my pants...

Then yesterday, after almost no sleep, and a marathon kitchen-clean, it was off to the Brother-In-Awe for a loooong boozy lunch with the folks. He virtually shares a birthday with me. We only cared about minding our Ps and Qs until the second glass of wine, after which shit got quite entertaining. But I'm feeling a bit wobbly today. Still...

And here's proof positive that, although the theme tune for my birthday was written by Robert Smith and released on 'Bloodflowers' in 2000, I can (and still do) act like a young inebriate, and enjoy every second!

Thanks once again to all of you for sharing this minor milestone with me.

Spread The Love. Never Enough...