In the spirit of maintaining the bullshit levels in the internets, I hereby humbly submit my report on this weekend's activities. It was yet another wonderful weekend away celebrating the lateral aging of one Tarty Farty Tequila Party. Accompanied by around 20 of her closest friends, Robertson was about to get a new one torn.
Surprising then, that Robertson is still walking just fine...
Probably because we were some ways out of town in this picturesque type of farmhouse accommodation.
Setting off directly after work, we got there at around 8 to discover that the potjie I was supposedly in charge of, was already basically underway. So, hastily catching up, and grateful to the foresight of the Bacon Pilot, I set about creating another masterpiece. Masterpieces, as we all know, take time. Especially when one is given a very large canvas (No.14 pot) and one has so many critics to satisfy. Alas, it seems we well and truly live in the era of fast food. Eventually I took a very calming little moonlight stroll and came back with my spirits lifted, ready to lift more spirits. To my bek.
I've never been a huge fan of Wimpy, but our outing to town for breakfast was well worth it if only to prepare me for the rest of the day by providing a timely reminder that we were, in point of fact, no longer in Kansas. Our waitress, bless her soul, manfully wrestled whiff the Ingils. As, evidently, she had done earlier whiff the same person who was responsible for Mimi's make up on The Drew Carey Show. After abandoning all hope of a successful shop at Pick 'n' Pay, we congregated at Kilpdrift for a private brandy tasting and tour. The inevitably trying introduction video was soon followed by a very interesting exploration of the cellars, equipment and processes involved in the making of South Africa's favourite spirit beverage. But it was the tasting at the end everyone was looking forward to the most. The Hot Girlfriend got all the little pairing edibles and I got all her brandy. The stage was set...
En masse, eventually, we did descend on the Robertson Beer Festival. After mild sunburn waiting to get our arm bands on, we were duly informed that they had run out of beer mugs (included in the entry price) but that we could purchase ours inside. The people inside knew nothing of this arrangement. Patience wearing thin, and bek burning from all the brandewyn, I eventually managed to slake my thirst with whatever lager was kind enough to dribble the measly millilitre for "tasting" into my nice clean unbranded mug. I'd need a few more of those if I was successfully to avoid allowing the treble assault on my poor ears to get the better of my good mood. So I quickly settled into a system of obtaining a "taster" in double measure, walking outside to my friends while sipping it down, and then promptly turning on my heals to go back and fetch the next. Until I got to the Belgian speciality stand. Where they actually refused me service. Deciding that they could forthwith fuck off, I got stuck at the Red Something Or Other stand. And bought a few bottles of their Indian Pale Ale, which was awesome. But even further down the rabbit hole I discovered Robertson Brewing Company and their delightful IPA, Irish Stout, and Scottish Ale. Didn't even bother with anyone else, as a wonderful afternoon out on the lawns was had by all.
Upon returning to our farmhouse, the braais were lit up and so were we, merely carrying on where we had left off from the beer festival. As conversations invariably do, ours turned to how c**t is not a bad word and resulted in a cunning strategy to "take it back" including various ways in which it could now quite easily be used in a sentence to have a more positive overall interpretation. I'll spare you the details, but I'd encourage you to use your imagination.
Sunday morning's monumenstrual hangover was very well earned. But after a Hearty Tarty Farty full English breakfast, we all went on a hike into the beautiful surrounding nature. Some of us hiked harder than others. There was a dog called Mischa who spent the first half entertaining everyone by carrying a half a tree trunk as a stick and unearthing rocks on which to chew from the damn. And that pretty much wrapped it up. Another awesome weekend away almost leading me to believe that I would be quite content living out in the sticks, where life is simpler and the air is clean. That is until you take a jaundiced view of the type of people who enjoy slapping the table at a beer fest while enthusiastically singing along to Queen's greatest hits, or indulging in a poorly co-ordinated conga line which for some inexplicable reason ended up "biting" its own tail and went cyclic (much to the terror of the poor patrons trapped at the tables inside it).
So no thank you, I'm quite fond of my "cityfolk cynicism".
Anyway, back to life, back to reality. Here I sit in my little office, spewing forth my bilious bullshit. If you've made it this far, congratulations. You may stop slapping the table at any time.
So in honour of a very special person, and a very special weekend that was had in her honour: Happy happy birthday Tarty! We all love and cherish you very much. Your precariously zany presence in our lives makes us all the more blessed. You are a ray of sunshine in an otherwise rather dull journey through life. Even if you brought a FUCKING BIRD along on our weekend adventure. Thank you for being everything you are.
NGDG: What if Where's Wally has a fear of crowds and the longer it takes you to find him increases his anxiety levels?
Spread The Love. Lookada Cute Lil Bunny.
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