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...