Monday, December 15, 2014


Fucking tourist Vaalie bastards burning down my mountain again. Don't you unliterate dumkupfs ever get tired of that trick? Aren't you over visiting our malls in your startling neon yellow poly-shorts (replete with a Boksburg Brick cellphone hip accessory), walking full-family-abreast and remarking in fear and awe "Jinne, kyk daar mama! Dis mos nou duiwels!"

You're probably wondering if the mountain has once again been the victim of some negligent out of town shitbag. It has, I am happy to report, not. I wrote that a while back and forgot about it. When I went into my posts to start something new to end the year with, I was pleasantly surprised to find it sitting there, all ready and trussed up like the traditional turkey. Perfect.

As I do every year, and especially since this year I will be making the very necessary escape from my office a lot earlier than usual, here is a list of my favourite stories from this year just gone. As far as best of compilations go, it is by far the most mediocre thing I can imagine; nevertheless, at least try not to drop your smartphone in the toilet whilst reading...

  1. Surprise, surprise - this one's about music and Turtle Burnings.
  2. Black metal cheese.
  3. Reasons people dislike me. Quite a few of them.
  4. Stick with me, I'll make you famous!
  5. Take your hand off your penis!
  6. Just more things that suck!
  7. More moaning from Mr Moangat.
  8. I really did moan a lot this year...
  9. The thoroughly practical alternative to online slacktivism.
  10. How to be less of a doos.
  11. This list wouldn't be complete without a reference to blowjobs.
  12. Jeeeesh! More moaning...

Anyway, as I bid you a premature farewell, please take care of yourselves and one another this festive season. My dearest rabble rouser from New Zealand lands soon for a visit and we're gonna tear shit up, so buckle up. I'll also be missing the greatest show EVER so that I can play guitar as Rose Thorn and Commander Conker exchange vows - wearing a buttercup yellow tie...

NGDG: "It's Christmas and one lucky entrant will be drawn at random to win a Rachel McAdams. Share and like our page and say what colour you want. It's that simple. And as unlikely."

I'll have a blonde one please.

Spread The Love. Hug A Vaalie. To Death.

Friday, December 12, 2014


Yes, ladies and gentleworms! It's the weekend! (Note how I avoided sounded like that other blonde twat by leaving out the "baby"...)

And tonight is a very special occasion. Tonight we dodge loadshedding and ignore the ruling party to have one of our own - ironically the theme is black...
Tonight I hit the decks like Paris Hilton hits the tabloid headlines! And the similarity doesn't end there either! I do not beatmatch. All I do is play the most deliciously dark dancefloor classics for you all to get down and dirty to. I sometimes even crossfade...

So if you smaak your tekkie squeaking exploits to be to the ghastly grooves of the likes of Bauhaus, Fields, Sister, Cure, Mode, Mission, Rammstein, Zombie, Wumpscut, Swans, Ministry and many, many more, do pop in at Mercury tonight for Party In Black.
Guess what colour you're required to wear.

Once I have the crowd in a frothy frenzy, we're upping the ante with the legendary DJ Reanimator taking over before Cevin (Off)Key finishes you and the night with some seriously stomping aggrotech damage. Pack in your pool noodle hair slinkies!

Other than that, have a fantastic weekend!

NGDG: I sell the cleaning lady an old cell phone for next to nothing because her Blackberry is broken and she's scared her child won't be able to contact her over the holidays. Today I hear the Blackberry 'she's fine and the sister will have this now'. Fuck your sister and fuck you.

Spread The Love. Romantic, Candlelit Love...

Wednesday, December 10, 2014


What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. I'd happily have stayed a while longer in Barrydale.

Alright, for the sake of my ever diminishing dignity, and your mind's eye, let us get the awkward euphemisms like "pitching our tents" out of the way first.

It was a balmy night...

After a little roadblock in Robertson, and a few educated guesses owing to poor directions, the Brother In Awe and I arrived at the farm where we were camping for the weekend - next to a damn - for Commander Conker's bachelor party. Some of the lads had gotten there quite a bit earlier and the spirits, as well as flowing, were already high. I know I was supposed to be done with the whole pitching the tent thing, but let me tell you, it ain't no picnic in the countryside with load shedding. There is a special kind of dark out there, and I wasn't close enough to the roaring braai fire. The first night was quite sedate, with only minor casualties and the drinking limited to "extreme".

You know how I'm always on about the Brakpan Boikies Boetilicious Braaimix? The one with Summer Of 69 and The Final Countdown on it? Well, one of the locals that was invited - let's call him 'Kaptein' - decided the best way to wake up an entire camp full of hangover guys was to blare, you guessed it, 'It's My Life' as if we were at a fucking T20 game at 9 in the morning. He very nearly was decapitated by a Jack Daniels bottle. After much sitting around, a cold shower, inspecting the massive pork spit roast that was already on the go, and some cat herding, it was off for brekkie at a nearby wine farm. Kak life, I know... Anyway, thinking I was too clever by half I decided to make use of their rather more pristine facilities. Sauntering into the bathroom, trying to attract the very minimum of attention, I fled like a detainee who just managed to escape Gitmo. After the inevitable guffaws subsided, I calmly explained that the loo was infested with little birds and that entry was not an option. Thankfully everyone's favourite knight in shining armour, TDB, was at hand to shoo the 4 foul beasts from the bathroom and shut all the windows and doors. Very bravely I once more entered only to find their nest above one of the cubicles. Farm life is not conducive to a pleasantly relaxing dump, lemme tell you! We had to make a quickish getaway anyway after Kaptein politely asked the farmer's wife if he could "daai wyn uit jou doos uit drink"...

Back at the camp we fished. Well, everyone else fished. I stood there, casting, reeling and cursing. Fishing is only relaxing if you're actually catching something. The frustration of failure quickly negates any meditative quality it is supposed to bestow on those participating. Time for the first drink of the day! And then off to one of the most picturesque slabs of real estate I've ever seen (on a winding mountain pass between Barrydale and Swellendam) where we indulged in a spot of jumping off rocks into brown water. Glorious. Once again returning to the camp, we were greeted with a call to lunch and were presented with an entire pig, spit roast to perfection! I thought my friend SaTim was going to pass out - he was actually hyperventilating from excitement.
Nothing like a spot of lawn cricket and some more standing by a dam with a stick in your hand, while everyone else catches fish, to relax you and get you in the mood for the evening's pub crawl...

Yes, the inevitable pub crawl. Going from one place to the next, taking over, being obnoxiously raucous, making new friends, contributing to the town's GDP to the extent that most inhabitants could take the rest of the year off, and generally having a blast. At one point we walked into some place and as soon as they found out it was a bachelors party, some patron ever so nonchalantly ordered 20 Jagermeisters for us. He wasn't the first to lavish rounds on us, although he was the most generous. And he wouldn't be the last. A few minutes later the poor bachelor was faced with what I can only describe as a Platteland Flaming Lamborghini. And after he failed to successfully dispatch of it, it was left to me to save his blushes. If only someone had told me that stuff in the middle was Stro Rum. After that I somehow volunteered to take his shots on his behalf and that's where things start getting a bit hazy. I do remember, after much more drinking back at the campfire, that my Brother In Awe passed out somewhere that wasn't his tent. Then after a lengthy process of elimination which involved a lot of muffled "fuck off"s we eventually got him to it. He refused so hard to enter that we left him and found him asleep in his car the next morning. There is also a mountain of photographic evidence of the bachelor eventually relenting to social expectations and performing his own striptease.

All in all, it was a fantastic weekend away and my sincere thanks to the best man Doctor Thrasher for organising such an awesome getaway.

Can't wait to see all you maatjienaaiers at the wedding...

NGDG: I'm convinced that showering by candlelight inspired many a Manowar album cover.

Spread The Love. Someone Bring Me A Damn Fish.

Wednesday, December 3, 2014


There's a well known story in the good book which tells of Moses striking a rock, upon which water flowed forth. Well, South Africa, it's time for the waterworks.

I've been intending to write a little bit about the police state in the good ol' U S of A. I was going to comment on how, at least our own police force was far too lazy to even bother shooting us for jay walking or brutalising us for inquiring after our rights.
Then I saw a news report on some worthless piece of shit cop actually standing on the head of a helpless old lady. In the street. She was already restrained. With his FULL WEIGHT. 16 Days of activism against the abuse of women and children my lily white privileged arse...
And then I remembered Marikana. I remembered Mido Macia. I remembered those motherfucker cops who man handled that poor old man, unresistant, into the back of a cop van with their 9mms drawn.

But let's get back to the "police officer" who abused a grandmother in the street. And his ilk...

What compels a man to do such a thing? In fact, what compels a man to turn to any sort of violence? I can understand self defence. But ganging up on, and kicking the shit out of an old woman outside Tiger Tiger? Or domestic violence? Is the fact that we are not allowed to discipline out youth finally coming home to roost? Do we have on our hands a generation raised on televised violence, Satanic rock'n'roll, misogynist hip hop, and the inability to comprehend consequence? I have nothing against a good spanking, especially in the bedroom or in the dungeon. Spare the rod, spoil the child? The debate rages on.

Riah Phiyega, at this especially poignant time, you have a wonderful opportunity to provide a shining example to all South Africans as a woman in a position of power.
Riah Phiyega, clean up your foul farce of a police force and start protecting and serving South African citizens.
Riah Phiyega, combat this cowardly behaviour and root out the culprits. Show them what consequence means.
Riah Phiyega, fuck you. Fuck you and your incompetence. Because I know that's not going to happen.

And that, ladies and gentlemen is the problem. Policy makers and police chiefs the world over are untouchable. Winning elections year after year with empty promises, free tshirts and the occasional scandal.
Charity starts at home. I know I'm preaching to the choir, but let's all - one by one - try and help curb the scourge that is violence. Violence against women and children. Violence against men. Animal abuse. Every type of violence. Violence perpetrated by those who should be protecting us against violence. I know it sounds a little trite. Because it's so obvious. Clearly it isn't obvious enough.

On the day leading up to the "celebrations" on the anniversary of Madiba's passing, this is how you behave, South Africa? Today you should not celebrate, South Africa. Today you should weep. Weep in shame.

Ice T said it best when he gave us: "Shit would hit the fan motherfucker, and it will hit real hard."

Now go and kiss your mom. And yes, I do kiss my mother with this mouth.

NGDG: How is load shedding supposed to reduce stress on the grid when you go to bed an hour early only to wake up in the morning to find the TV, all appliances and every light in the house blazing since 3am?

Spread The Love. Stop The Violence. By Any Means Necessary.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014


Her name is Lucy Something or other...

I'm going to take a stab at telling you how my weekend went. Later on it'll all come together and you may understand the reference. If you're standing in the bright Cape Town sun, blinking at the sharp light after having just discovered a way out from under a large stone, then you need to know that there was a fairly important gig here on Saturday night at Assembly. The rest happens to be incidental. Nonetheless...

Friday night at Mercury was insane. I'm not even using the word lightly. It was Mr METAL's 30th birthday and all the kids came out to play. Even the aging cast of Sex And The City was having the jol of their lives at the corner of the bar and a'hollerin' and a'whoopin' like men half their age. There were quite a few bands on display. The Rudimentals have taken the Tokyo Drift approach to their musical direction and introduced an electronic element along with what I can only describe as a mass Black Eyed Peas lyrical melange. Clearly this new energy works, as they have recently hit the top of 5FM's charts, but I wasn't convinced by the Beastie Boys vs Mango Groove mash up. That being said, it's clearly not being done with my artistic vision in mind and more power to them. The rest of the bands had the crowd going suitably nuts all night. I really must revisit Bryan Ferry's wise words. That, or hang up my going out stirrups. The main thing was the awesome time had by all and especially the love shown to the birthday boy! METAL!!!

Saturday I was introduced to a game akin to lawn jukskei. With elements of chess. And clearly developed by the devil and the people who designed printers back in the day to include the "paper jam" feature. I wasn't the only one at the picnic who didn't like it, as a very inebriated homeless person on a church hat went off on a rant so eloquently colourful, she inspired this lot of privileged individuals to start a zef rap group. We're called the Tik Kop Naaiers (TM) and we already have 2 songs written. Watch out Jack, Ninja and Yolandi. I am your creator...

Anyway, swiftly on to the main event. After a quick (and fucking awesome) meal at Roxy's we took a stroll down to Assembly, only to dart straight into Lefty's to continue our Prehemoth Drinks (after taking one look at the queue for the show). It's testament, not only to how dire things have become, but, to how well Witchdoctor Productions are now doing, that we bolt at the sight of a line of people outside a venue. Back in my (doddering old) day, you'd stand outside Playground for ever unless you knew someone important. I didn't, but the party already started IN the queue.
Finally we got inside and watched the second half of the Konkhra set. They were as punishing and as heavy and as unforgiving as a freight train from hell. Brilliant! The crowd was simply bludgeoned into submission - and they loved it!
And then after the mandatory round of high fives, bum-out hugs and "pretending you remember where you know this oke from" it was time for Behemoth. A theatrical triumph! They effortlessly entranced the acolytes gathered to worship in front of them - as if at some ominous black mass. Their stage presence is an otherworldly wonder to behold and Nergal's natural charisma is the stuff the kerkbazaar tannies warned you about, instantly pinning everyone under his serpentine spell. Not to mention that they started with the mind blowing 'Blow Your Trumpet Gabriel', my personal favourite...
[*Before you take me for some superfan, please note that I'm THAT arsehole who never paid them any attention until it was announced that they were touring. I then clicked on the Youtube and the first song that came up was the breathtaking video for "Blow Your Trumpet..." I largely disregarded everything since then, admittedly smitten with this sublime slab of dark art.]
The highlight of my evening was actually getting to meet and hang out with Lilitu - the darling demonic diva of Theatre Runs Red fame who had traveled down after playing Joburg with Behemoth/Konkhra the night before. Let's do that again!

Oh ja, did I mention that the internationals ended up opening for Wildernessking? Their atmospheric, plaintive black metal majesty rounded off a perfect night - one I am sure many, many people will never forget.

What's a night out watching one of the world's most evil bands (who can actually afford production quality on their recordings) without a bit of blood? I'm having tremendous trouble typing this as my one finger is pointed away from the keyboard swathed in Elastoplast. I got home and, in a drunken attempt to clear a bit of a mess, somehow managed to pick a fight with a razor. The razor won. 12 hours of thinning my blood out also meant The Hot Girlfriend did a lot of cleaning. She really is amazing!

I must make special mention of the Sad Panda twins. You have to work on the corpse paint, guys. And lay off the McDonalds. There's more to life than the dank dungeons in which you mope and play quest games between epic bouts of cranking. A wise man once lamented "See the light and feel my warm desire..."

It won't surprise you at all to learn that Sunday was a write off.

Football last night, however, was not. I still can't understand how they forgot to carry me off the field held aloft on their shoulders.

So, to everyone I drank with, partied with, drank with, laughed with, drank with, made fun of other people with, and generally cause kak with, thank you! Thank you for an exceptional weekend. I'm still standing. Try harder next time, motherfuckers.

NGDG: Steve Hofmeyr's attorney actually tried to shut up a libelous ventriloquist's puppet by putting his hand in its mouth.  Jinne, Steve. Clearly you couldn't afford BDK.

Spread The Love. How 'Bout A Go On My Trumpet?

Wednesday, November 26, 2014


Although you may immediately leap to a point which intersects Perry Farrell's anthemic chorus and mild internet outrage, don't beat yourself up. It's my way of getting people to click on provocative headlines so that I can continue to refuse to get paid for the messages of hope, love, peace, understanding, tolerance, boobs, beer, DOOM metal and the occasional rant when it all gets a bit much. But is it? Perhaps I am subtly alluding to a deeper ill in our society...

You have to be THIS tall to be allowed on this ride.

Please disregard all of the above as a clumsy introduction to the latest SONGS WE MADE FAMOUS - ICONIC WOMEN OF THE NINETIES. Another night of wonderful performances by the variety show that comprises Anton Marshall's group of friends. And one which celebrated the impact women have had on the music and the memories of our (not so much) youth, as we navigated our way through torn jeans, ratty jerseys, scuffed Docs and poppers in the smoke machine of whichever shit hole we found ourselves immersed in the aural aura of it all. You know, because it's 16 days of activism against woman and child abuse. And Woman's Month. Or something. How is it not just a continuous conscience? I digress...

Yup, he went and did it again! 2 sets of superbly chosen songs performed by Cape Town's choicest female vocalists. And a bloke. The show kicked off with Mr Daniel Fernandes, an interesting take on femininity, but starting with the plaintive strains of Tracy Chapman, very quickly stamped his musical authority all over everything. An accomplished guitarist and a captivating voice brought new life to great songs that have most certainly laid down a lot of tread over the years.
Following him, the diminutive hippie punk Cami Scoundrel proved (again) that dynamite comes in small packages as she - on tip toes - walloped the audience with a rousing rendition of Meredith Brooks's 'Bitch'. (I was still singing it to myself after I got home.)
Thereafter, the walking talking (trust me on the talking part) embodiment of the typical angelic voice, Rose Thorn strode out to the mic. After a brief introduction that wouldn't be out of place in the beginning of a rom-com about a shy girl overcoming her stage fright, she treated us to a truly special experience as she belted out 3 Cranberries classics with all the aplomb of a seasoned band leader. The truth is that I have been keeping her largely to myself as an integral part of my doom metal band. For now, you may refer to us simply as The World's Best Kept Secret. Let's just say I could not, for love or money, wipe the grin from my face throughout.

I'm not going to go into too many specifics, and detail the evening on a song by song basis, as I feel that the spirit of the evening was more of a complete experience, which also included awesome performances by Thomene Dilley, Amy-Lou Dickinson and the fantastically feminine voice of Anton Marshall, who did Suzanne Vega more than justice. I am, however, going to single out another two performers for special mention. Shannon Devy has the voice and the charisma of a goddess! Fuck me! Talk about being blown away... She did Brian Molko better than Brian Molko could ever hope to. Don't even get me started on the set closer - 4 Non Blondes epic classic 'What's Up?' - it raised the fucking roof! That was one of the best vocal performances I have had the pleasure of watching, hearing and feeling. Someone next to me had the decency to lift my jaw back up and go buy me a beer.
But the evening belonged to one Marisa Salvarto, who had never sung in front on an audience before, never mind in the hallowed arena that is Mercury. I don't know if it was the nerves, or the relief at pulling off such a stellar performance, but congratulations! You will never ever forget this special night - and neither will anyone who was lucky enough to be there - you NAILED it!

Speaking of nailing it, once again kudos to the house band. Stuart, David, Damian and the man himself, Anton - well done on another flawless job. I sincerely hope these evenings become the institution that they are planned to become. I will be at every one of them. (Do not go there... we are NOT talking about the ALTERNATIVE EIGHTIES night.)

Bravo to all of you! And for the sake of full disclosure, here is the list of iconic women and bands that were so brilliantly honoured last night:
Tracy Chapman
The Beautiful South
Sheryl Crow
Meredith Brooks
The Cranberries
No Doubt
Suzanne Vega
Alanis Morissette
Joan Osborne
Placebo (cheeky)
4 Non Blondes

NGDG: I support President Zuma for a second term. Only this time it should be 25 to life.

Spread The Love. "I Pray Every Single Day For A Revolution"

Friday, November 21, 2014


So the evening came and went and not too much happened to shatter the earth. Rose Thorn and I enjoyed a nice quiet night of reminiscing, watching old live footage and drinking wine. Apparently though, there was quite the kerfuffle online...

The lads at Witchdoctor Productions had been keeping the metalheads of this country waiting for long enough. Speculation has been rife for months as to who would complete the line up for next year's Witchfest. It seems a super efficient method for gathering information on who peoples' favourites are for future reference.

Then, after a few teasing "Tatadah-daaah!"s, they go and drop the bomb of all bombs. Cannibal fucking Corpse. Anyone who is anyone who has ever liked their deaf merrils on the heavy and burtals side had that quiet moment from the movie Green Street Hooligans when West Ham draws Millwall in the cup.

And then motherfuckers lost their minds!

And rightly so. Now let me put this into perspective for you. According to prevailing tastes and cultural notions, I am the furthest thing from a staunch merril head. I'd rather inject puppies with cyanide before subjecting myself to "Hail! Hail! Fail! Chainmail!" songs of slaying dragons and drenching wenches in mead or what the fuck ever. Similarly, I cringe at the thought of Trve Kvlt Blekk Merril with its rather limiting production value of being required to sound like was recorded on a four track Fostex in a jail cell. Don't get me started on the ridiculous face paint and assless leather chaps in the snow. The list of subgenres I don't care for is almost as long as the total list of subgenres. And I fucking hate Iron Maiden. Which should disqualify me altogether...

But I do recognise when something mind blowing is happening. To book the stellar list of local and international bands Shaughn Pieterse and Alec Surridge have managed is nothing short of miraculous and should warrant the eternal gratitude and respect of anyone who has ever found themselves in a moshpit or headbanging along to anything with overdriven guitars in it - regardless of specific style.

For the metal loving public, this could not be any more of a monumental accomplishment and event. For the local bands chosen to play alongside these legends, I can't even begin to imagine...

I'd like to single out a few friends of mine that have truly deserved this honour a thousand times over.

Adam Van Der Riet, Paul Blom, Ronnie Belcher, Adrian Langeveldt, Patrick Davidson, Jacques Hugo, Ian Watson, Bryan Villain and Wallace Warner. I could - and probably should - add names to that list, but I'm trying to keep it as select as it can be - and in so doing to recognise the massive contributions made by these individuals and to lend as much weight to this achievement as it rightfully deserves. Ladies, take a bow.

Also, it creates the illusion that I'm cool by association.

And on that rather manly note, I will leave you with the following thought...

Should the next cover my band does be 'I Wear My Sunglasses At Night' or 'My Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades'? They say there's no such thing as bad publicity.

NGDG: The upside of matitudinal gastric reflux is the super fast Internet. And this. This is funnier than Justin Beiber on fire.
[*Disclaimer: I'm unsure if I've used this quote before, but I'm too lazy to check.]

Spread The Love. Just Don't Use Cannibal Corpse Lyrics As A Handy "How To"...

Wednesday, November 19, 2014


Beauty is in the eye of the beholder...
Through rose tinted shades...

Platitudes which disguise the truth. I hate how art is subjective. Probably because of my barely in-check "self belief" (others call it arrogance and narcissism of worrying proportion). I can understand how something I find unpleasant, aesthetically or aurally, may be appealing to others. In principle. But being the only person I know who knows my tastes, I tend to trust myself above the slack jawed appreciation of the masses.

And that fucking eye sore of an "art" installation on the promenade is just that: a fucking eye sore. Not to mention just another glaring example of a trilby sporting oik with limited talent milking the already far too tarnished legacy of our country's beloved father. What the fuck was he smoking when he came up with that awful piece of brand blandishment? Ray Ban must be laughing all the way to the Banksy.

Anyway, the defiling of this "art", no matter how objectionable I find it, should not be tolerated. Fuck, it shouldn't have been allowed to be planted there in the first place, but as is painfully evident in modern culture, there is sweet fuckall accounting for taste. But to vandalise it was not right - even if it raised a chuckle from those who were offended by the garish grotesquery. Imagine you write what you think is the world's greatest tune, perhaps something somber and, in your mind, emotionally vulnerable. The average pop up collar wearing Edward Street resident would scoff and revert to the tried and trusted compilation of songs used for Castle Lager ads. My parents just sighed and tried prayer. But if someone had run on stage and spray painted my guitar and I whilst [* for Anton] I was playing a 14 minute dirge (and trust me, in hindsight, it was truly a test of most peoples' patience), I'd have lost my shit like a shit collector with amnesia. At the time that stuff meant the world to me.

I suppose the difference is that, in the case of the Wayfarer Whatthefuckery, we can identify a crass collusion with commerce and an even more underhanded attempt at benefiting from the memory of a great man under the guise of magnanimity. If you'll excuse the very strained pun, the people, the vandalists, and everyone outside the Biscuit Mall, saw though it. Whereas pure art, the kind made with no agenda other than the expression of the artist, is personal - and as crap as it can be, is not contrived.

That being said, I fucking hate so much of what's considered artistic. Especially shit like the new bifocal point of the promenade. I thought it was being UPgraded for fuck's sake. Then again, if I was king of the world, only about 200 bands would ever have been allowed to exist and everyone would wear black, so what do I know...

I have on occasion been known to stand in front of a piece of art, in the hushed surrounds of a gallery, thoughtfully stroking my chin, desperately trying not to be caught out as a complete fraud. Perhaps I should try facial hair.

I think William Welfare summed it best when he said: "After UTC guerilla-hipsters in balaclavas and designer hand gloves ironically "defaced " artist Michael Elion's Ray Ban sculpture last night, the ghost of Van Hunks responded by burning down Signal Hill."

 Enough of my pointless rambling. Get on with your day. There's cricket on...

NGDG: Look! An immigrant. A politician. It's all good, it's Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Spread The Love. Sex In A Spray Can.

Monday, November 17, 2014


Still a better love story than Paris Hilton.

Wow! What a weekend! I'm so knackered I can hardly keep my shit together as I sit and type this. Luckily I have a fairly functional body and at the very least a tenuous relationship with reality - just enough to keep me upright and pretending to care. Unlike Donita Sparks.

You'll see the connection...

Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, right in the middle of it at Mercury! Despite the weather, the faithful, the subverted and those of a darkly curious nature slowly filled up the venue in anticipation for the big night. Old faces, new faces, faces we hadn't seen in many, many years and a whole variety of make up styles - it was great! First up - and celebrating their 12th birthday - were Terminatryx who, along with the various guest artists enlisted to perform with them, tore the place up! The crowd went nuts as they stormed through their repertoire in some style. They also premiered their new video, 'Gone' which proved a resounding hit.

Then it was SUBVERS's turn to hit the stage. We were playing our last show with our drummer, Double Deebs, as he is emigrating to Germany, so it was a little bittersweet, but he went and made damn sure there wasn't too much dwelling on sentiment as he pounded the living shit out of his kit one last time with us, making it a gig to remember - at least for me personally. And then the drinking started in earnest.

Saturday morning was a little blurry and after depositing one Biggie back at his abandoned vehicle, The Hot Girlfriend and I made our way to her home and waited patiently for Commander Conker and Rose Thorn to pitch up with the truck for the big move. And after I'd finished carrying a bunch of heavy furniture up and down stairs, it was time to carry a bunch of heavy amps back to Bothners. Thanks guys - as always, they sounded awesome!

Anyway, so much for any chance at resting my wicked bones... Yesterday we braaied at the in-laws. I'm still uncomfortable after eating that entire steak - it was out of proportion and out of this world!

And here I am, back at work. With nothing to do but look at your bloody mugs all day, hoping against hope that someone will have enough initiative to say something entertaining on Faeceboobs at some point. So far no deal...

At least I get to go home, have a nice cold beer, ignore the dishes and relive my rock star fantasies as I watch the video footage over and over and over and over...

NGDG: I love each and everyone of you beautiful people. Profound gratitude for filling my day with your thoughts and good wishes. I know i'm not a irredeemably crotchety old fool yet if I can still hoist the damp towel of international friendship with my heart boner.

Spread The Love. Hoist The Washcloth.

Thursday, November 13, 2014


Cliches are only cliches because they have been proven to be true...

Tomorrow night, all ye fans of The Addams Family, you should be nowhere else but clicking the fingers of your disembodied hand to the grooving gothy sounds of the Republic Of Cape Town's very own SUBVERS as they bestride the stage in their tight pants and shocking abundance of hair. If you have somehow managed to miss this band up til now then you have an awesome opportunity to infinitely improve your life. Imagine it! Just like in the deodorant ads, all of a sudden half naked women will be swooning all over you, your muscle mass will double overnight and your super powers will save the world. And if you have boobs, you'll stalk around in the highest heels without getting blisters right up until that moment Prince Charming comes trotting nonchalantly up to you and suggests brunch at the Mount Nelson...

Similarly attired, but altogether more smooth, the trench-coated terror of TERMINATRYX will blast through their trademark dark industrial stomp. Celebrating their 12th year as a band, they will be joined by an array of guest artists on the night: Francois Blom (VOD, K.O.B.U.S), Theo Crous (Springbok Nude Girls, K.O.B.U.S), Craig Vee (guitarist and singer/songwriter extraordinaire), Braam Cilliers (Grämlich, Ashes At My Grave), Natalie Lucia (Witness To Wolves, Conduit) and last and most probably least, yours truly, attempting not to balls up enough for anyone to notice...
They'll also be launching the second video off their 'Shadow' album, a song called 'Gone'.

Fuck me! The hits just keep on coming!

In years to come people will still talk of this show. They'll fondly reminisce about who was there and how awesome the bands were and how unforgettable this magical night was. And how drunk that one doos was, staggering around in his leather pant thinking he was cool...

Anyway, without giving too much away, SUBVERS also has a little surprise for you. Well, it is a little surprise, so don't pelt us with rotten tomatoes if we don't go all Oprah on you and start dishing out cars as prizes to everyone. But we're sure you will like it.

So let's see all of you 'darklings' out en masse at tomorrow night's show! You know you want to... And now you have The Addams Family feem toon stuck in your head, don't you?

NGDG: [Ed: It's Neal's birthday today, so he gets the day off. We here at Monster HQ would like to take this opportunity to wish everyone's favourite politically incorrect Hemingway a bleeding fantastic day! The little rascal, we adore him so.]

Spread The Love. Subversion Is The New BDSM...

Wednesday, November 12, 2014


Ah, where to begin today? I could offer you some more unwanted insight into the woes of man. Or perhaps a vague review of what ails social media that's too trite to read all the way through. Pop culture? You don't need me to tell you what to consume or which so-called celebritney needs your undivided attention - good or otherwise - on their Twitter feed so that they can buy yet more shit you'll never afford.

Maybe I should stick to being the misanthropic optimist I've always been. When I get to that pot of gold, I'm sure it'll be spray painted a darker hue.

Rather let the experts share their opinions on how excess has ruined a generation. Or at least the privileged fraction. Enter William Welfare, journalist, muso, philosophical philanthropist. He's been around for some time, taking shots at the soft underbelly of a bloated industry for a while now - if you've been paying any attention.

And his band, also called William Welfare, have a new video. Their first English effort, the single '4 Cups Of Dust', is a song I thought warranted much praise as it struck the right kind of chords with me - straightforward, no nonsense rocking out. The next video I saw was the unavoidably enjoyable 'Elephant Man' replete with super sexy nomadic tribeswomen, even sexier tight golden spandex and the flailing fantasy phalli of the Cocktopuss. So the new video, 'Fat People', had quite a lot to live up to...

And it does not disappoint. This "ominous take on the obesity crisis of the Western world mixed with a Southern, deep fried, tongue-in-cheek country shuffle" is the perfect antidote for a world run by fat cats and populated by mindless, bullshit guzzling morons. Documenting the rampantly rotund and the fast food culture, showing clips of tasty super models getting a burger shoved into their perfect mouths (my favourite part for obvious reasons...) and the band themselves rocking out to this well worded slice of sonic satire, like the irrepressible Kyle Gray on drums, it hits the spot. Watch it. Enjoy it.

[*Disclaimer: If you've somehow managed to take offence, then may I suggest that your fuller figure is the least of your problems. It also means you didn't bother to watch the video before hurtling towards righteous indignation like a pie truck with no brakes. Unless you're part of the Super Size Me 'Murican Elite. I which case I don't really give a fuck.]

Ok, you draaaaaaaagged it out of me, so I will let you in on a little secret. Tonight I have my first rehearsal with TERMINATRYX in 4 years. I'm spreading the love and playing a song with them as they celebrate their 12th year of existence with a gig at Mercury on Friday. They'll be playing with SUBVERS, who happen to be such nice blokes that I am allowed to play guitar for them as well. So if you'd like a double dose of delinquent drunken doos, this is your best chance!

NGDG: There are more umbrellas crowding the entrance than in a Hong Kong protest camp.

Spread The Love. Fat People Have Feelings Too.

Monday, November 10, 2014


She's not Buzz Lightyear...

I have no idea how to classify WITH DAWN. Not that I feel one should pigeon hole bands in order to conveniently categorise them for your enjoyment, but it certainly does help to know what one is getting oneself into. Having seen them perform once or twice before, and having checked out a couple of their online offerings, I was fairly excited to attend their album launch on Friday night at Mercury. The closest reference I could muster was a comparison to Deftones. Or something.

Not being a huge fan of whatever genre that is, I have largely ignored it - even flat out dismissing it for the most part. And, as so often has happened in my life, I have been forced to gag on humble pie once again. Not that I'm going to go out and bulk buy any and all [insert whatever sub strain of extreme heavy music this actually is - I still don't know], but suffice it to say that I have found a few appropriate adjectives that I hope will help adequately describe what I witnessed and experience on Friday night.

Massive, gargantuan guitars unleashing a crushing, destructive tone, laced with haunting delicate interludes.
Enormously impressive vocals - a range I haven't often encountered.
Intelligent, emotion-laden lyrics delivered with a terrifying conviction.
A rhythm section that could level mountains - drifting between time signatures with damaging effect.

You get the picture...

WITH DAWN creates soundscapes. They simultaneously wear their raw, ripped-up heartfelt music on their sleeves and allow themselves (and the listener) to become entirely enveloped in the turbulent inner dialogue. It's meant to be taken seriously. This is music which deeply contemplates loss, love and loathing, and does so without resorting to cheap mall-metal eyeliner emo.

And I got the cd. Obviously I was going to buy the cd. I haven't stopped listening to it since. It is everything I was hoping for. The production is immense, allowing the music all the space it needs to captivate the audience with its rollercoaster of bludgeoning barrages and beautiful, moving musings. Kevin displays a breathtaking variety of vocal capabilities, from anguished howls to delicate harmonies; earth shattering roars to piecing screams, it's as chilling as it is cathartic.

Did I mention OHGOD!...? Joining WITH DAWN on the night, they did what they do best: rip us a new one! I marvel equally at their effortless ability to create and deliver some of the most intriguing music being served up right now and the ease with which they mesmerise a crowd. Sometime I don't know who is more entertaining to watch - the band or the hundreds of eyes gawping up in awe. That is, of course, until they get that wonderful rumbling groove kicked in and the crowd goes fucking nuts!
It's always (and truly) a treat - watch out for this amazing band!

And that was my Friday night. On Saturday I found out exactly how hard re-enforced concrete is to drill through in the sun with a hangover. I also went to pick up one of the sexiest guitars ever made - another toy I get to play with when I once more bestride the stage on Friday courtesy of Paul Bothner Music. And then we buggered off to Kommetjie for a much needed evening of R'n'R followed by an epic beach walk the next day surrounded by the sand hippies of Noordhoek.

NGDG: Give a Zet a fish and you'll feed him for a day. Teach a Zet to fish and he'll buy a boat to dump the children in the bayou.

Spread The Love. Mugshots!

Friday, November 7, 2014


That's for not waking me up with some head!

So we've reached the end of yet another taxing week. How is it, that the nearer we get to the end of the year, the further it seems? I can't wait to leave the office behind - and relax in the December fun'n'sun. My partner in crimes against humanity is coming for a visit. It's going to be one of THOSE summers.

Which brings me to my next point. Why do so many South Africans deliberately limit their music tastes. We've all heard of the internet. Here, you can steal any music from anyone and no one bats an eyelid. It's sometimes even actively encouraged by the very people who create the music. It's the only industry in the entire Universe where the manufacturers and visionaries go emotionally and financially broke, wasting years of blood, sweat and tears, alienate friends and family - all in the pursuit of noteworthy nirvana - and then give it away for free.
Anyway, where was I? Ah yes, the great South African tradition of braaing - second only to swearing at the telly when your rugby team under performs and "gehekelde kondome". An event at which you can witness the gathered individuals getting progressively more animated as the effects of the brandy kick in, until Barry's Bok Befok Braaimix for Boets makes it's way onto the stereo, featuring such perennial favourites as:
Bryan Adams - Summer of 69
Bon Jovi - It's My Life
Right Said Fred - I'm Too Sexy
Don McLean - American Pie
Kurt Darren - Kaptein
And the obligatory Jive Bunny Mastermix Medley.

Anyway, as you can see I have a major issue with people and music that suck. Well, not ALL people. And if you're getting dirty thoughts, then perhaps you'd be interested in this little gem I found online. No it's not what you think. Someone linked it on Faeceboobs and I HAD to investigate. Speaking of which, why wasn't J Arthur Brown's trial debacle called that in the tabloids? So ja, I give you The Autoblow 2.0. Kinda makes you want to stay in the weekend, doesn't it?

But you won't. Because of all the things that DON'T suck. Like tonight's highly anticipated album launch by WITH DAWN. They will be releasing their glorious load (of songs) on you this evening at Mercury as they celebrate the official entry into the world of Infinity, a body of work which I am personally getting more and more excited to hear (I've ordered the disc and heard some tracks online). Much like one of their influences (if I had to guess) they have grown on me in the same way Deftones did. The hype, she is big around tonight. Could have something to do with the stellar choice of opening act. OhGod! are something else in every great sense of the word. Their sonic sorcery combined with WITH DAWN's aural avalanche is going to be an experience you do not want to miss. As always, I'll be propping up the bar with my usual studied nonchalance and a nice cold "make a tit of myself" juice in hand. Hope to see ALL of you there.

As with every Friday before, we are obviously celebrating our imminent freedom with a healthy dose of irreverence. Be awesome. Be safe. Betroot. Ooh, yourself!

NGDG: Why are they killing our football players? It's not like they were ever a threat.

Spread The Love. And The Mrs Balls.

Thursday, November 6, 2014


I've had the immense privilege of being invited to play a small part in Anton Marshall's wildly ambitious themed evenings of live entertainment. Now, before you picture me on all fours, in a pink latex 'My Little Pony' outfit surrounded by whip-wielding gimps, it's not those evenings I'm on about...
It's just the normal ones where normal (and not so normal) music lovers come out and enjoy a few sets of well chosen  - and beautifully performed - songs. Songs that are so well chosen that everyone is left standing there going "Fuck me! What an inspired choice! How did I not see that one coming? Awesome!" while they tap their feet and struggle unsuccessfully to keep the smirky grin off their face.

Last night was the first in a series of nights like this in which a "house band" performs "SONGS WE MADE FAMOUS" and are joined by an array of wonderful guest artists. Joining Anton are Stuart Scott on guitar, Damian Staz on drums and Dave Muller on bass. These evenings are themed by decade and the songs selected are precisely those that brought the original artists their fame.

I'll give you a clue how it works. You can't do a show featuring showstopping acts from the seventies and not include Iggy Pop. And if you're doing Iggy, you gotta do Lust For Life. Or it could be the other way around. Incidentally this was the song they chose to launch the evening's entertainment and they couldn't have chosen better. Throughout the night the performances were stellar - especially considering the virtually nonexistent rehearsal time allowed to polish up these classics.
Gareth Vorster provided the vocal impetus for Lust For Life and got the festivities off to the perfect start, before Mr Tony Shine smoothed his way onstage and crooned out a wonderful rendition of Queen's Crazy Little Thing Called Love, a delivery only eclipsed by his abrasive version of Bowie's Suffragette City, which closed the first set.
Sandwiched in between all this devilishly handsome swagger, an angel appeared and took my breath away. Tamsyn Leigh has something special. Anyone who can pull off Debbie Harry, Chrissie Hynde and (particularly) Stevie Nicks deserves to be followed around by fawning acolytes spreading rose petals in her path forever. Her gorgeous vocals on Blondie's Heart Of Glass, The Pretenders' Brass In Pocket and Fleetwood Mac's Dreams were indeed heavenly. And I haven't even gotten to the best part yet, never mind the second set.
On saunters Riaan Smit. Off buggers everyone else, leaving him, his guitar, and a simple mouth organ to mesmerize us with Billy Joel's Piano Man. Fuck, this guy has a voice. It's like Jack Daniel's, Cuban cigars and weathered leather. But many of you probably already know that from his regular Bluestown Sessions...

On to the second stanza.

A poignant solo performance of Lou Reed's immortal Perfect Day by Stanley Zive got the rest of the evening going, and heralded a very difficult choice, but ultimate winner for performance of the evening, a raunchy rendition of Don't Fear The Reaper, the Blue Oyster Cult classic, replete with a Bruce Dickinson lookalike leaping about the stage abusing the shit out of a cowbell. True Art.

Another salvo of Riaan Smit's grainy bourbon-soaked vocals graced the haunting Hotel California (Eagles) and the rather more upbeat I Will Survive (Gloria Gaynor), followed by Black Sabbath's seminal stomper Paranoid, with Gareth rocking out on vocals once again.
Then came that guy. That unknown (at least to me) guy that always finds his way onto a bill and pisses you off. You feel like you should just fuck off and start listing your lifetime's worth of collected equipment, dreams, aspirations, blood, sweat and tears on Gumtree and be the fuck done with it all. Ebi Johnson, where the fuck have you been?
For most people, being asked to play and sing anything by Jimi Hendrix would probably leave them a little nauseated, but this guy...
This guy just fucking KILLED IT! Voodoo Chile the way Voodoo Chile DESERVES to be played... I have no more words. Just... fuck.

Most men shy from such a hard act to follow. Not Mr Marshall, no! In his most impressive Morton Harkett falsetto he belted out Led Zeppelin's Rock'n'Roll like he was in the shower without a worry in the world - testament to the man's awesome ability!

And finally, as if all this wasn't enough, we were treated to The Sex Pistols' anti-establishment anthem Anarchy In The UK with Tony Shine adding his own velvety vocal take on Rotten's rabid lyric.

And they managed to do all this without ever slipping into "wedding band" naffness territory.
To Anton - bravo! I hope the 80s and the 90s shows are as brilliant. Can't wait. (Still VERY bummed about the conflict of schedules...)

To all at Mercury, Lisel, Kevin, Lux and Syd, thanks once again for a great night,

NGDG: There may be a million ways to die in the west but there is only one way to prevent me watching it and that varmint Eskom be to blame. Shee-it.

Spread The Love. It Is, After All, The Age Of Aquarius...

Monday, November 3, 2014


Get 'Knotted'

There I was. Friday night, and the only one in the club who wasn't dressed for Halloween. I lie, some of the old fart brigade (all very good friends of mine) were also out in their Joe Average outfits. One thing everyone had in common though, was a collective interest in what was going on on the stage.
First up, Junkyard Lipstick playing (what we can only pray) was a once off gig with Cruella deVillain filling in as vocalist. He makes a charming he-she, balloon boobs and all!

But the evening really belonged to Bulletscript, who were celebrating the release of their EP, 'Knotted'.

Ian Watson has something to say. He's pissed off and you WILL hear it. The vicious passion he managed to conjure up makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck, perfectly fitting for Old Hallows Eve. Writhing, spitting, and throwing himself around the stage in various stages of anguished hostility, he is very quickly cementing himself as my favourite frontman to watch live. Part Rollins, part Anselmo and completely committed to the cause, his rabid delivery is the perfect foil to the rugged riffing that backs him up. An absolute powerhouse rhythm section underpins the gargantuan grooves ripping out of the amps as Jacques Hugo and Marcus van der Tuin combine to chug and shred their way through masterfully crafted chaos. Joining them for 'We Owe You' was the legendary Adam van der Riet, who was once again coaxed from vocal retirement to effortlessly show the next generation exactly why us ou ballies consider ourselves the golden generation. Cue Golden Girls comments...

Strident were next up and I had other commitments, so missed most of the spectacle of raised fists and rode off into the sunset to lance my own dragon.

But I had in my grubby little paws a Bulletscript cd. There is almost nothing more exciting than the anticipation of waking up on a Sunday morning, unwrapping a sealed disc, and sitting back to enjoy it through superior stereo equipment. Listening to great music through earbuds conveying the clipped, compressed version is altogether less fulfilling.

So, from live review to a quick look at the 'Knotted' EP. The production is beautiful - combining a crisp, clean finish with the crushing tone of seriously cranked guitars. Add to the perfect mix and the precision playing Ian's previously discussed venomous vocals and you have a product that warrants many, many play-throughs. 'Knotted' pays more respect than a perfunctory passing tip of the hat to bands such as Pantera, Entombed, Meshuggah and a whole host of other extreme acts, even Pothole, but never sounds like any of these. Instead, here is a local band that has managed to melt together all its influences and forge an identity of its own - and a "fuck you awesome" one at that. Well done, guys - I fucking love it!

How many dead children in halloween costumes does it take to change a lightbulb? Not 5. There are five down there already but the basement's still dark.

Spread The Love. Maniacally.

Friday, October 31, 2014


Now, now... we'll have nun of that!

So today it's Halloween. But yesterday it wasn't. And yesterday I resolved to pen a piece on the festivities of the night before. Which I didn't. Because I was hung over and not motivated in the least.

I'd gone out with Tarty Farty Tequila Party to go and enjoy an evening watching Gerald Clark perform his awe-inspiring blues-drenched sonic wizardry. At a little place called Bootleggers - humble coffee shop by day, nefarious hang-out for the well to do, but not so gifted in the brain department by night. Accompanied by stand in drummer Jonno Sweetman, it was a show to savour! It was one of those "miracles unfolding before your very eyes" kind of shows. Jonno is a revelation! The man is a a demon on the kit, with more tricks than the collective neighbourhood's kids at Halloween, after having been denied any treats. And Gerald, as always, delivered an evening of glorious genius, entirely lost in his own vibe, and clearly enjoying his music as much as I was.

That is, when I could actually see what was going on. Having found a conveniently nearby perch for my aging arse, I was obstructed by "the masticator" and "the doe". The one's ever-chewing, ever-babbling maw, and correspondingly oversized frame, only outdone by the other's wide-eyed lack of comprehension and ugly high heels - together they contrived to block virtually every angle from which I could watch - at least for the first bit. The place was packed! Eventually one of the deep-V-necks decided he'd recognised a fairly straightforward blues scale and whooped and hollered along as if he had a tie around his head and had been at the free bar of his best friend's wedding.

I also had to go to the lavatory, as you do when gulping down copious amounts of overpriced "craft" beer. Were I a midget or an amputee, perhaps the confined space into which I had to squeeze myself to relieve myself would have been sufficient. As it was I had to lean as far back as I dared, squint down my nose and pray to God I didn't get any on my jeans.

Anyway, we had a radical time. Gerald always delivers a masterclass in musicianship and this night was no different. We were treated to a great performance that included his full varied repertoire and even a whole bunch of songs played using a beer glass as a slide. Magical all round! Thank you Tarty! (Incidentally, from this day forward, she is going to be referred to as Tipsy Gypsy.)

And then last night we descended on the home of Commander Conker and Rose Thorn for a 5 course meal. And some devastatingly good wine. Fuck my life, right?

Tonight I play football and then go and watch a few bands at Mercury do their thing for the Halloween Slaughter. I'm looking forward tremendously to seeing Mr Villain get his "drag-on" and try to hit the highs like George Michael. And then there's the main course, Bulletscript. I struggle to even try and be objective about them. They tick just about every box in my long and unnecessarily full-of-shit list of things that make a fucking brilliant metal band. I can't WAIT! They have also released their debut EP. I highly recommend you get Knotted.

And on that note, on with the dog-and-pony show. Please remember to keep your outfits less than too realistic if you're going anywhere as a zombie. Motherfuckers are unduly panicked about the ebola epidemic in SA. And if you're going as a vampire, lay off the glitter - that shit WILL get you killed. By anyone with a modicum of decency, literary appreciation, or a moral compass.

I'm going as the Pope. In a Sheldon shirt.

NGDG: I don't find the pejorative synecdoche "Soutie" insulting. I'm flattered that you think it would dangle in the sea.

Spread The Love. Get Rid Of The Habit Altogether.

Tuesday, October 28, 2014


Saying 'No thanks' to a blowjob...
There's a first time for everything.

Ah, Halloween! Not just the abbreviation for Tim Burton's dog. Actually, I believe it's derived from "Old Hallows Eve" whatever the fuck that means. I suppose if I'm going to complain about modern day interpretations of classic traditions I should go and read up on the origins of the practice, but this is the internet and most of you have probably already been compelled to type TLDR with an exasperated sigh.

And since all but the most tenacious and therefore the most awesome of my readers are still plodding through today's dose of drivel, I may as well admit to using this very same heading last year. My ever so regurgitated apologies. I myself only found out now...

So, according to a very respected source (also from the interwebs), the costume of choice this year in 'Murica is "Sexy Ebola Nurse". Considering the entire point of a HazMat suit is to cover everything, one wonders just how they're going to go about wearing as little as possible. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for skimpy outfits and promiscuity. After all, the gangly, awkward version of me in my adolescence wouldn't have stood a chance if it wasn't for a metaphorical moral loosening of the belt. But it's morals of a different kind that this behaviour calls into question, not to mention the indictable lack of intelligence and susceptibility to media hype. Yes, I'm the cantankerous old bastard sitting on my porch yelling at the kids to 'git off mah yard!'. Just think - if the Holocaust happened now, this weekend would see frat boys everywhere double teaming drunk, half naked Nazi bimbos on pool tables. Probably even after Pearl Harbour. The real one, not the movie.

I know I'm not the only one weeping for humanity. And I'm dreading the day I have to witness my own (possible future) daughter trying to get away with shit like this - or worse. I'm probably going to reap all manner of dastardly rewards for my shenanigans. I wonder, if I was a young man today, if I'd be taken with the Twerk Or Tweet generation's female of the species. Or if my adult revulsion would remain...
Don't get me started...

But there's good news as well. As usual, the musical underground - other than salivating through prosthetic teeth - has taken this opportunity to put on a variety of mouth watering shows this weekend to commemorate this special spooky holiday!

The Halloween Slaughter is already an established event, now in its fifth year and going strong. Organised by Bulletscript, the formidable line up includes Strident, Junkyard Lipstick, Moment Of Clarity, and of course the irascible riff-monsters, Bulletscript themselves. I cannot tell you enough how much you NEED to see this band. They will tear down your perceptions and reaffirm your faith in the sort of metal that pulls no punches - leaving you bleeding on the floor. I hope Mercury's clean up crew is ready...
Then there's Full Metal Jack at The Rabbit Hole featuring Beeldenstorm and a few others. And if you still haven't had enough blistering local merrills, the following night sees Burning Tone Records' second annual Blitzkrieg, in which they showcase all the bands on their roster - Infanteria, Zombies Ate My Girlfriend, Megalodon and All Guns Full Ammo. Get all your buddies and go! Remember kids, travel in well lit areas and in packs. The locals of Edward Street are the current equivalent of pitchfork wielding witch burners.

But the undoubted favourite of the weekend has to be Attack Of The Ghost Riders, a show that's being put on despite The Black Angels postponing their trip to South Africa. If the line up of The Very Wicked, The Sleepers, Loveglove Pyrotechnic and Playing Dead doesn't get your ghoulies greased, then you may as well stay in your grave this Halloween...

But wait! That's not all! If you fancy yourself a horror movie aficionado, then you probably already know about the annual Horrorfest. If you don't already know, where the fuck have you been? The most prestigious film festival of its kind in SA, now in its tenth year, you daren't miss this 11 day feast of creepy celluloid celebrations.

My sincerest apologies for not keeping it to 140 characters or less.

NGDG: I was eating a bratwurst and drinking a beer. This girl was doing the same. So I asked her what her favourite Woody Allen movie was and she said "Who's Woody Allen?" It was like the Germans HAD won the war.

Spread The Love. Shake Dat Ass?

Wednesday, October 22, 2014


I've been away for far too long.
I was struck down with a vicious bug.
I felt very sorry for myself.
Then I returned to the land of the living and I felt even more miserable.

I'm fascinated by people who are fascinated by something that has sweet fuckall to do with them. People who condemn without really knowing all the facts. People who call into question the very principles on which our lifestyle is based. People who so easily succumb to the mass hysteria created by a "trial by media". A sensationalist media so often scorned for irresponsible journalism by these very same people. People who seek retribution by posting inane quips online like a vengeful horde of witch burners. People who should know better.

The trial of the century...

How has the death of an innocent young woman in her prime affected any of you, other than giving you something to keep you distracted from the real atrocities committed in this world? Spare a thought for her family, who are so bereft they're selling (soiling) her memory to the highest bidder. So that you can all relive the outrage on your Kindles. For shame.

Murder, rape, burglary (more often then not violent), domestic abuse and assault happen so often in our rainbow nation that they are accepted as the norm. Yet no-one blinks an eye until they are directly affected. We just happily pay the ever escalating ADT premiums. But let one famous athlete fuck up (and fuck up he did, make no mistake) and the bilious vitriol spat all over the social media of your choice is so venomous, it threatens to rip apart the fabric of society like an incensed hive mind.

It's an indictment on humanity that so many are so easily swept along and so infatuated with watching a beloved figure falling from his or her ivory tower. You put them there. And now you're the pack of virtual wolves waiting to rip flesh from bone after terminal velocity has taken care of the rest.

I'm no legal expert. I won't even pretend to give enough of a shit about this entire farce to have an opinion. My beef is with you, the viewers, the commentators, the faceless mass of slack-jawed daytime tv devotees, the self appointed judge and juries, the would be voices of an outraged public. Have any legal precedents been set by this apparent miscarriage of justice? Has the accused - after being given the chance to plead his case in court, and facing the charges brought against him by the state - not been found guilty and duly sentenced? Yes, money and connections bring with them the privilege of being able to manipulate the clearly flawed system. But raise your hands - I dare you - if you would meekly surrender your liberty after, say, being arrested for driving under the influence, if you had the means to get out of it.

I have no doubt that a lot of people I know would disagree with me. I have no doubt that the sentence handed down was most certainly lenient. I have even less doubt that circumstances will eventually lead to an even more comfortable application of this sentence. Appeals may even be considered... But to call what has transpired an error is to buy into the rankest conspiratorial suggestion. The world's penetrating glare was focused on every second of this trial. A mistake was simply not an option. Yet even after all the nitpicking and pedantic point-for-point analysis, has even one legitimate legal mind come out and cried foul? Or are the laws of this shining democracy being upheld, even in the flimsiest sense of the word?

Like I said, I certainly don't know nearly as much as so many of you law professors out there. And I most demonstrably give far less of a fuck. But allow me to make a few suggestions on how better to occupy your time:

  • Find an institution that specialises in trauma counseling for the victims of violent crime and volunteer your services.
  • Engage with your community and do something to help similar victims in your neighbourhood.
  • Join the police or study law. Failing that, just turn off your fucking TV when Shrien Dewani is mentioned, go outside, and spend time with your dog.
  • Contribute instead of condemning. Even if what you see is contemptible. If you wasted all your time getting your tits in a tangle over every shitty thing happening in this shitty world, you'd have nothing left but wrung out hands and an impressive collection of hessian outfits.
  • "Get on with it!" Your life, that is...

Let the spluttering indignation begin...

NGDG: Apparently a compromised debit card need only be cut in four through the magnetic stripe. Not 64 pieces, reassembled with pritt, to scan as proof for the bank that I'm still in possession of  said card, or a really crap puzzle.

Spread The Love. For Everyone. Not Just The Victims Of Famous Shitheads And Their Dirty Deeds.

Wednesday, October 1, 2014


I needed to have SOMETHING to write about considering that, if the law of averages is to be believed, some time today, this new post will have some completely unaware stranger read my blog for the ONE HUNDRED THOUSANDTH TIME! I couldn't wait until I had something worthwhile, so I made a little rhyme.
For you
From me.

A kugel did a kegel
As she stood and asked her spiegel
"Who's the bestest of them all?"

But when the answer came
It shocked and left her lame
And prompted her to promptly drop the ball.

THANK YOU ALL for reading the sometimes wise, sometimes wistful, always a complete-waste-of-everyone's-time rants, diatribes and silly stories. I hope you have enjoyed them as much as I have.

Here's to the next 100,000!

Spread The Love. No Really... Spread It.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014


Once again, nothing to do with anything.

That is of course if you're not an advocate of the death penalty making a return. Which you shouldn't be. I find it temporarily amusing that so many people baying for the re-institution of the lethal injection are the same dumb fucks who can't help but point out the obvious shortcomings in our judicial system. Clearly not the brightest peanuts in the turd.

If you subjected me to Guantanamo Bay style torture, having bamboo shoots inserted under my nails, enduring a Parliamentary sitting, watching an entire 3Talk with Noeleen show, or if you forced to listen to the latest Nickelback offering on repeat, I really wouldn't be able to pinpoint what got me to that epiphany. And I hate using the word "random" altogether. It's just another reminder of the literary void exemplified in the current generation of layabout slouching youths. If I use enough big words I can distinguish myself from them. Or come across as a gigantic arsehole. Your choice.

The point is I really don't know.

Usually by now when I "just start writing" I have assembled some sort of idea what the subject matter is going to be for the day, but that tried and trusted method of shaping my mindless regurgitation is failing me today. I could tell you about the wonderful Garfunkel & Oates singing comedy act that I discovered on the intrawebs, but you lot probably already know of them. I just recognised them from cameo appearances in Big Bang Theory.

I wish I had more to offer. I wish I had something more constructive to add to the development of humanity. I wish I had bigger biceps...

Perhaps I should make an attempt at that 'contributing to humanity' thing. Seems like the one with the least effort involved. I'll try and steer clear of classics like "Don't be a dick, be cool":

  1. Adopt or foster a rescued animal. If you can't, then do something to aid the institutions that save them.
  2. Observe netiquette. Don't repost willy nilly. Everyone has probably seen that shit a million times and for goodness sake, use an anti-hoax site before you get your tits in a tangle.
  3. Avoid "reply all" at ALL costs.
  4. Get outside and exercise in the fresh air. Unless you reside in Lavender Hill.
  5. Call your folks - if you're still fortunate enough to have. And stick up for your father, he stuck up for you.
  6. Life's too short for bad music, cheap women or running out of booze. (Bad music is, incidentally, an affront for which I would gladly act as judge, jury and executioner. But it is the only instance in which the death penalty would be acceptable. And only if it offends my sensitive senses.)
  7. Never fail to take advantage of an opportunity to help someone. Unless it's at your front door and you'd like to avoid a steady procession of beggars.
  8. Always wear clean underwear? Hah! I say never wear ANY underwear! That way the paramedics will think you are way more risque/popular than you really are.
  9. Don't marry your job, unless you're one of the lucky ones who do what they love.
  10. Use spell check.
  11. Recycle as much as you can.
  12. And in the immortal words of Aretha Franklin, try a little respect. It goes a long way.

I still have no idea where any of this came from.

NGDG: This is why I live here. This makes me more patriotic than Candice Hillebrand in a green and gold g-string.

Spread The Love. Not The Ignorance.

Monday, September 29, 2014


What comes around, goes around. Indeed.

"The world we live in, and life in general..." Words that echo from way back in my childhood. As a devout Modie, they certainly shaped my interpretation of things, and probably still have some lingering effect. Don't ask me what exactly they mean to me, or anyone for that matter, but it is what it is.

I suppose lyrics to songs can very often be misinterpreted, and probably are more often than not. I try and keep mine as ambiguous as possible, allowing the listener to make their own assumptions and take from the words what they want. I've even caught the singers of these lyrics out, when asking them exactly what it was they were singing about. Then again, I can be purposely obtuse and a bit of a doos. The vast majority of these songs however, deal with times that have caused me emotional turmoil, such as break ups. To the point where we have even trademarked the name for that section of the song after the second chorus when the music either "breaks down" or "builds up". Yup! The "break up"...

I digress. I have to tell you about a certain interesting run in I had this weekend. Hanging out at some place in De Waterkant for an old friend of mine's birthday party, I found myself glancing around the room more often than usual. I was the designated driver and the conversion was getting away from me. When all of a sudden I notice one of the party of bachelorettes looking at me as if I'd let one rip and she was having trouble seeing through the ensuing fog. I recognised her instantly as one of the young ladies about whom I have been forced to pen a ditty in the past. It wasn't all that positive (he says nonchalantly flicking his fringe from his eyes). After mouthing the query/response of our respective names at each other, we got up and did the whole "Oh wow! It's so awesome to see you! How're you doing?!" schpiel, and here's where I actually started quite enjoying myself. We no longer have contact, in fact there has been very little in the way of communication since I took my kite flying a bit more seriously. It transpired, without going into any sordid details, that in the end one of us is a lot better off. At least in the matters of the heart. I couldn't help but feel a little smug, but managed to avoid blurting out "Ja, serves you right!"

Anyway, people make their choices and we have to respect those choices. Sometime you agree, sometimes you don't. But in the end, we can but hope and pray that the ones we make steer us to the best situations, people and results for us. And here's another thought, just while it popped into my head. You know how everyone believes in karma and the power of retribution and evil people getting their just desserts? Well, that's all good and I'm sure that shitty people will be rewarded accordingly, but I disagree with the same premise being applied to the good side of "what goes around, comes around". Basically, no matter how magnanimous or noble you think you are by "paying it forward", you're doing something nice because you expect something wonderful in return, which is to misunderstand the point entirely.

Now here is something - for you - because I love you and no other reason. A new instrumental Sleepers track. Enjoy. At least this one's words won't be misconstrued...

NGDG: If you simply have to protest Israel, can you start with those annoying Dead Sea Skincare promoters?

Spread The Love. Listen To Michael Bolton On Mute.

Thursday, September 25, 2014



So Tarty Farty Tequila Party posted something witty about a visit to the gynaechiatrist, and I unfortunately responded by saying I was infinitely grateful that I would never have to go through that clearly dreadful experience. Now, long story short, I have to write a piece on it...

Not that I haven't woken in sweaty night terrors at the prospect of having my prostate checked. I believe I am almost at the age when I get the relive the sheer hell of the school nurse curtly telling me to "cough". It's very similar. Little did I know back then that I'd spend virtually every waking moment of my life dedicated to getting a female to cradle my balls in a similar fashion. It was only weird in the army physical...

Then someone told me that they no longer give you the Polsmoor Probe to determine whether or not your prostate is healthy - they now rely merely on blood work - a fact met with much rejoicing! Which brings me back the the stirrup demon. It's easy to joke about it, but I'm sure that for most women it's rather an unpleasant gedoente. And in the light of my only comparable experience now being a thing of the past, it left me wondering just how kak it must be and how I'd manage a trip to the dreaded Uterus Mechanic. Right now all I can think of is how I'd react to being pants-down in a room resembling a doctor's surgery and all I can come up with is "Happy ending, please!" seconds before the physio threw me out on my ass.

So let's pretend I'm a lady and I do lady's things, and for a few minutes at least resist the overwhelming temptation to point out that I'm a little bitch anyway. You call up and make your check-up appointment. What is the protocol vis a vis grooming? Does one present a neatly trimmed patient for inspection in the same way you brush your teeth before gaping open your maw at the dentist? I bet you there are a few gynies who could tell you some stories. But never mind all that, from what I'm led to believe (I've seen movies like 'Knocked Up' and so forth...) it's fairly unpleasant, if only for the invasive nature of the visit. I would imagine that even for the most aggressively sexual among us that this is invasive and most would rather not have to go through it.
So there I am with my heels in the stirrups, doing my best not to speculate as to the possible problems that could be found and, at the same time, praying that it'll all be over soon and I'll be stamped with a clean bill of health. Bits dangling in the breeze waiting for the bearer of lube and probes. No, we're not in Amsterdam. And with the theatrical thwack of a rubber glove we're away! I don't know what you're looking for, but like I keep telling my husband, it's a little to the left!

You see, it's hard not to sexualise or trivialise these things, as a guy. And I am trying my best not to be too flippant about this subject / ordeal. But with every word I type I have to be honest and admit that the only phrase bouncing around my big dumb head is "don't work where other people play". You see?

Anyway, I have attempted to think what it would be like to deal with this experience, and have come up short, not only in terms of completing the narrative, but also in being able to remain calm and rational. Perhaps I AM a woman after all. I have failed to remain composed and to offer a reasonable or fair portrayal of the terror inherent in a visit to the gynaechiatrist. For this I apologise. But I just cannot get my head around it sufficiently. Let's not even get me started on the obvious confines of trying to keep my language in check.

NGDG: Energy-saving bulbs! Enjoy a glimmer of stone-age ambience in your home today!

Spread The Love. You Got A Shoe-horn Or Something!?!?

Tuesday, September 23, 2014


Gaan haal daar vir die oom nog n biertjie, dan kry
jy n slukkie, maar moenie vir die tannie se nie...

It continually amazes me, although it really shouldn't by now, how easily people are swayed by popular opinion. Even the so-called intelligent among us. How easily we bay for blood or have a really strong opinion on something or push an agenda without first educating ourselves or finding out everything there is to find out about a certain issue or story. We're slaves to our emotions and we'd all do very well to take a step back and apply some rational thought to our knee-jerk cries for justice or emphatic outrage against this, that and the next thing. Every day I see highly educated, erudite people that should know better falling into this trap. They sully my newsfeed with half truths and poorly researched propaganda or, even worse, some smutty sensationalism - even the ones with the itchy Snopes trigger fingers. It appears to be more a of a contest in appearing to be just the right amount of indignant, outraged or compassionate that drives this sort of behaviour. What happened to cool detachment?

Well, that isn't the answer either. I am glad so many people are that passionate about so many things. Our ways need mending. And perhaps I'm a bit cynical, but some days I wonder if a bit of circumspection wouldn't go a long way. It really is true that there are usually many facets to any one argument.

Anyway, before I start pointing fingers and pissing off some of my nearest and dearest, I suppose I should move onto jollier ground. Tomorrow (can you hear Annie singing her little heart out?) is a public holiday here in good ol' South Africa. We are celebrating Heritage Day, and since the only thing the various different people of our disparate country have in common is the bloodthirsty consumption of beasts cooked over an open flame, we have dubbed it National Braai Day. (That bloodthirsty bit was for all my friends who do not condone eating flesh.) Or in our case, National Braam Day. You see, it is TDB's birthday and we get together for an event called "My! What An Enormous Sausage" every year. I can't remember if that's in reference to the braaing or that time Tim-kerbell was in the bathroom stall next to him...

Um, nothing to see here. Move along...

In other news, my vineyard now has rootstock planted in it! So now we watch, wait, pray and water regularly. With any luck in a couple of years I'll have some people around with very clean feet and we'll stomp some grapes into mulch, after which we can wait another couple of years before we even know if it's a roaring success or an abysmal failure. Some new pics for you...

And on that rather uplifting note, I bid you bugger off. Enjoy your day off tomorrow, but do so responsibly. Remember the cops will be out in full force and you don't want to be Papa's next girlfriend.

NGDG: Professor Tim Noakes telling jewish fund managers to eat traif liver and brains as part of a Real Meal Revolution: hilarious. Telling me not to drink beer: Not gonna happen.

Spread The Love. Green Peace Sells.