Shaun Thinks There Might Be A Misunderstanding Here.
Marine Taxis. Should You Call The Marines?
Whenever I get shit-faced at a bar, night club or public park, I tend to do it in the company of a designated driver, as they can then tell me where I live, what my name is, and then proceed to take me home in a calm and safe manner. At this point I'd just like to tail off for a minute and say that five commas in one sentence is pretty awesome - have a look at that last sentence I just wrote.
Anyhoo, the designated driver is usually pre-determined through a Greco Roman Wrestling tournament thrown beforehand at The HQ, with the ultimate loser having to then spend the rest of the night drinking soda water whilst listing to the drunken and unfunny ramblings of everyone else. This particular occasion saw The Gupster and myself oiled up and fighting for our lives - literally in my case - as I am severely allergic to soda water, with just one drop being enough to make my head explode - a fact everyone who attended the Finkelstein Bar Mitzvah in 2003 will surely attest to.
I had just managed to put The Gupster in a reverse leg lock, when out of nowhere he pulled out a rolling fireman's carry and slam, causing the both of us to go crashing into the coffee table The Girlfriend so cherishes. Besides signing our own death warrants, this act also ensured that the match was a tie, meaning there was no designated driver for the night.
So it came to pass then that we decided to call the Marine Taxis to take us around. (Jesus Hernandez - what a long introduction to the main point of the story)
Referring to themselves as "the Marines", their adverts promise that the Marine taxi drivers are highly trained professionals who know Cape Town as well as one would know a long term sexual partner, trained in first aid, advanced driving, martial arts as well as weapons training. Basically the kind of guy you would want at your side in a scrap with some drunk varsity students outside Tin Roof on a Monday night. Yes, the Marine taxi driver is a fearsome creature indeed. Or so we thought.
What we got instead was a frail looking old guy who could just about look over the wheel. This was of course after he eventually managed to arrive outside The HQ, as he got lost for a while, and failed to initially notice the trail of sheer awesomeness that would have lead him to us. Once inside the car, he showed off all his immense advanced driving skills, hurtling down the M3 at about 70 km per hour whilst listening to Radio 2000.
When we eventually got us to our destination, he couldn't work out how to get the swipe card machine to work properly, so we had to take some money off three white guys walking passed, as we didn't have any cash on us, and it would have been a bit awkward to leave without paying. He also said he would wait for us, but we later saw him driving off with two flossies back toward the city, so we never saw again after that.
So yeah, that was basically our vibe with Marine Taxis. They don't offer a bad service overall, it's just that we kind of felt a little lead on, like when a guy takes home a shapely young flossie he met at F-TV, and discovers that she was actually wearing a corsette and has hairy armpits, or a chick hooking up a hot guy she met at Caprice, and discovering he had a pair of socks in his underpants all along.
We kind of expected more, that's all.
Marine Taxis mostly operate around the CBD region, you can contact them at 021 434 0434.
It was a cold and dark Friday night at a nightclub called Blink in Claremont, I had just consumed 23 bottles of Smirnoff Ice (one after the other, it was sort of my "thing" at the time) and needed a change of beverage, otherwise I would have thrown up, which would probably have prevented me from making out with the flossie I was trying to impress. With the light at Blink being notoriously dim, and due to the fact that I DID just consume 23 bottles of Smirnoff, the R200 note understandably resembled a R20, and I generously told the ample-chested barlady to keep the change.
The annoyance experienced thereafter however, was NOTHING compared to the way I felt after watching Hancock, the new "movie" starring Will Smith.
I like Will Smith. He seems like the type of guy I would get on with, and probably hang out with if I really wanted to. Why he decided to star in this stinker however, is beyond me. Let's give you a quick breakdown of the plot. Smith plays the role of "John Hancock" a superhero who lives in Los Angeles. He is not your typical superhero though, he drinks religiously, doesn't shave, and doesn't have a goofy alter ego. Although he helps people and stops bad guys, he causes millions of dollars worth of damage in the process, and as such, the public have taken quite a disliking to him. Jason Bateman plays a PR Guy who, after being saved by Hancock, decides to help him improve his public image. Oh, and then there's also Charlize Theron who plays Jason Bateman's wife.
The problem with this movie is that it seems to suffer from an identity crisis. Is it a comedy? An action flick? Maybe a drama? It sort of tries to touch on all these elements, but doesn't really pull it off. The premise of an alcoholic superhero was clever enough, but that's all they really had, it's like the script writers didn't really know what to do or where to go with the storyline thereafter. There are some half baked bad guys thrown in, a couple of meaningless action scenes and a ridiculous and non-sensical "twist" that will leave you scratching the dandruff flakes from your head. The film is a mess, and the only reason it may prove to be successful is because of the star power of the cast.
Bizarrely, some critics like Barry Ronge have hailed this movie as one of the top films of the year. Then again, this is the same guy who wears checked waist-coats and square-tipped shoes, so I wouldn't take his opinion very seriously.
Take my advice, give this film a miss, it's been marketed as both an action-packed blockbuster and a comedy and it fails to deliver on both fronts. Seriously, you will be very disappointed.
Like the recent Zimbabwe run-off election, the Claremont Nostalgia Tour was a predictably successful one. After murdering a few Fish Eagles at Cubana in Greenpoint, we headed off to Claremont for a our first destination - Springbok Pub.
Despite the renovations that were done, Springboks is still
just as dirty as I remembered it all those years ago. If you stood on the same spot for longer than 10 seconds, you were basically f*cked, you would have to resign yourself to the fact that you were now rooted to that spot for the rest of your life, which would probably limit your career choices as I would imagine. We saw one chick bawling her little eyes out when she rather foolishly stopped for a minute to answer her phone. Rookie error in Springboks my dear, you have to stay on the move to survive there.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that the clientele are also as classy as ever. In the bathrooms, a slightly inebriated young gentleman decided that the urinals were not to his satisfaction, and instead decided to relieve himself in the hand basin instead. Yes, Springboks is probably the only place in the world where it's actually better to not wash your hands after using the rest rooms. As one might expect, most of the attendees were a little on the young side, probably closer to 14 than 24. "Thank God you guys are here," said one clubber we knew from way back, "now I don't feel so old anymore". This of course earned him a sharp kick to the throat, as well as the mandatory confiscation of his beer. We probably would have taken his girlfriend as well, but we felt we had been there long enough and so decided to head on off to our next destination.
Stones was a bit of a letdown, clearly Thursday nights are not their strong point. We basically walked in to find an old man and his dog playing pool (A little Deutschhund incidentally, who was f*cking murdering the guy on the table) Besides those two, there were about five or six ugly people milling at the bar. We stood around for a little bit, bobbed our heads to some electronica number being played, and then headed on out to our next stop, as the ugly people were staring at us and that made us feel uncomfortable.
Tin Roof was no better really. Tinners consisted of 3 pretty girls on the dance floor, with about 5 guys sitting on the sidelines watching them from afar. Clearly the guys had all struck out and were now just glumly sipping on their Windhoek Lights. We milled around for a bit, had a few cold ales, and then decided to take the pretty girls with us as we headed on to Tiger Tiger, where we planned to throw our names away again.
Tiger Tiger was literally swimming with pretty young things, with a few dodgy ones thrown in for good measure. (To "balance things out", as they say in Belgium) Luckily we had our pepper sprays packed in, and used this to fend off any dodgy girl who came into our personal space, even the ones who had their backs to us. Strangely enough, the pretty young things of Tiger Tiger didn't really bother with us, but this was probably due to the fact that they were really shy and intimidated by how awesome we were. Happy that this was a suitable venue for us, we settled down and eventually closed the place, the doormen eventually having to throw us out at about 4:30 am.
The rest of the night was pretty hazy thereafter. In fact, I can't really recount much before that either, which is why I sort of just glossed over Tiger Tiger. I was kind of hoping you wouldn't notice, but I forgot how sharp you all are. Anyhoo, I seem to recall staggering over to Steers, ordering five spare rib pies from five different till operators, getting a Steers burger, and then eating it in an aggressive and animal-like manner, grunting with pleasure as I stuffed my face. I also then recall looking up and seeing the prettiest girl of the night staring at me in disgust. Or was it lust? There's usually a fine line there - I'm going to go with the lust though, as women tend to like the whole cave-man vibe.
Oh yes, there was also some chick in bunny ears who claimed to be a stripper, but we didn't really believe her as she had yellow teeth, and as we all know, strippers are NOT ALLOWED to have yellow teeth. Which made her a liar.
So yeah, in a nutshell - an awesome night, I need to end this now as I have to go to the men's room, so until next time - take care of yourself, aaaand each other.
As you all are no doubt aware, I've been writing for the Sports Leader website, a subsidiary of the Mail & Guardian. My latest column has been published, here with an extract:
"The European football championships ended on Sunday in typically spectacular fashion, as the Spanish flummoxed and beguiled the workmanlike Germans to take the cup, ending decades of frustration and disappointment for their weary fans, while giving them bragging rights for the next four years. It capped off an amazing tournament, offering the kind of exhilaration and excitement that would usually require extensive foreplay with some cuddling thereafter."Read More.
Have a read through, and don't be shy to drop a comment.
Monday evenings are usually spent chasing The Girlfriend around the lounge, trying to seduce her with sweet nothings in her ear, and tranquilizers in her thigh.
Round about twenty past seven though, the fun and games usually come to an abrupt end.
With a swift kick to the groin, The Girlfriend will leave me curled up in the foetal position, desperately trying not to cough up my testicles, whilst she settles down for the weather report.
"But Shaun,"
I hear you ask, "why is she so keen on the weather report? Surely frolicking with you is a helluva lot more fun than knowing what the swells in Richard's Bay and Durban are going to be?" You would think so, dear readers, but this is surprisingly NOT the case.
I haven't been able to prove it yet, but I think it has something to do with E-TV's new weatherman, Derek Van Dam. Whenever Derek is on, her eyes glaze over, like a fat kid who has just seen a chocolate doughnut at the Pick n Pay counter, and tries to gobble it up when the baker lady turns her back to fetch some more fresh pies out the oven.
The Girlfriend will then
go off into this weird trance, listening to Derek and his American accent massacre the likes of "Polokwane" and "Vredendal". Apparently she isn't the only one who loves the wee man - he is apparently 3 feet tall - many other guys I've spoken to have told me similar tales of kicks in the groin and general apathy by their girlfriends for those 15 minutes that Van Dam is on every night.
Worst of all, The Girlfriend isn't even able to tell me what the temperature will be the next day, which invariably leaves me prancing around in sleeveless vests and shorts when it's pissing with rain outside. This OBVIOUSLY happens because I can't judge the weather just by looking outside.
If I could, I would be a f**king weatherman.
I don't think I like Derek Van Dam. He seems slightly creepy, the kind of of guy who will fart in the lift and then not own up, letting the old woman or the little kid with the runny nose take the fall instead. His voice also annoys me, the type of high pitch that I had when I was 15, during those heady days of Catholic School Choir - before my voice broke and I was then able to cause Earth tremors and panties to drop with my deep baritone.
Seriously, why do women love him? Is it the accent? The boy band hairstyle?
I'm at a loss here, and I can't handle another kick in the gonads.
"Honey, I'm home," I squealed excitedly, as I stumbled into the doorway of The HQ. I had experienced a long, stressful Sunday at church choir, and the thought of The Girlfriend rubbing my feet with Arnica oil left me feeling giddy like a young school girl.
It was then that I realised I hadn't fumbled my way in using the keys as is usually the case, because firstly, I wasn't drunk on this occasion, but more importantly, the door was already open. I also noticed that my beloved leather couch seemed to have been moved from it's usual spot. I knew this because as I hurled myself down, my head didn't meet the soft bovine leather I had anticipated, but rather the cold unforgiving floor.
"How strange," I thought aloud, shaking off the effects of the mild concussion whilst picking up bits of my chipped teeth. I was pretty convinced that this WAS The HQ, my photos on the wall suggested that I was in the right place, unless my neighbours completely adored me, which I was a little skeptical about seeing as I regularly found the tyres of my car slashed, and poisonous snakes in my mailbox.
"Well, what do you think!," screamed The Girlfriend, who had quietly crept up on me, before leaping up to my left ear. She had taken it upon herself to redecorate our lair, which annoyed me as most of the things thrown out were invariably mine.
This included my Dr Alban albums, as well as my collection of bomber jackets, but thankfully I realised that she didn't manage to throw my name away. I did a pretty good job with that myself on Thursday night, which was totally awesome by the way, and something we will talk about later this week.
Right now I have to see a man about a boat, so we will chat a bit later.
It's the last Thursday of June, which of course means it's time to go on a wicked bender through the mean streets of Claremont.
Some of the Claremont night spots we will be hitting will of course include the following:
Stones - Ah, the perfect place to play a game of pool, whilst at the same time trying to hit on the flossies who think they're better than Tin Roof, but frustratingly can't get into Wadda or Tiger Tiger, thus chilling in limbo at the purgatory that is Stones, whilst waiting for their lift to fetch them at 12pm outside McDonalds. A typical conversation heard: "What's that? Your brother is here to fetch you now?"
"Okay, goodbye sweetie, thanks again for the bl*wjob outside."
"Of course I'll call you. Huh? No, I've got your number in my head. I don't need to save it on my phone."
Tin Roof (Tinners) - An exotic blend of vomit and beer can only mean one thing - you have just stepped into Tin Roof, home to pretty but skanky girls and brash yet insecure guys. Tin Roof, where you will never hear a song by Timbaland or Britney Spears.
"Hey you."
"Oh, you're introducing yourself to me again? We HAVE actually met - we made out about an hour ago at the barrel"
"No, don't be embarrassed. You made out with my friend earlier as well, but it's fine. No, seriously."
"You want to go to my car now? Okay, let me just finish my beer first. I just bought it and I don't really want to waste it."
"Stand outside and wait for me so long, I'll be another ten minutes. Go now, I'm talking to my friend."
Tiger Tiger - The location for many wild adventures back in the day, Tiger should be pumping tonight, especially with the whole student night vibe going on.
"Hey? You want to kiss me?"
"No, it's fine thanks. I just saw you hurling outside when I came in. You can rather go buy me another Amstel. Quickly though, this one is almost finished."
Wadda Bar - Is Wadda open on a Thursday? We will soon find out. I've been to Wadda once or twice, maybe even three times, and I honesty can't remember any of those occasions, so I guess that's a pretty glowing endorsement?
Springboks - The last time I went to Springboks I was this tall (points to his waist). They closed for a while, then opened up as Vertigo for a few months, before becoming known as Springboks again.
Is the place still so f*cking vuil?
Are the beers there still cheap?
Does that pole-dancing midget still hang out there?
All those questions will be answered tonight. With a traveling party of about 20, it should be quite the night, so don't be shy to buy me a drink if I happen to stumble into you. Especially if I fall over. Because that's just good manners.
NB: Everyone will have fun, but of course there will be no real shenanigans, or irresponsible behaviour like drinking and driving because:
A) The Girlfriend would cut my other foot off, and I need that one for walking and dancing. And karate kicks.
B) We are responsible gentlemen and will of course be traveling by taxi.
Whilst wrestling with The Girlfriend last night, I managed to strain 17 different muscle groups, so I'm not going to be able to write anything of substance today. I thought this would be a good opportunity to highlight some of my earlier masterpieces however, masterpieces which you may have missed.
Look, I know the Archives section can be daunting, but it's really worth the effort. Take breaks in between though, because the sheer brilliance of it all will literally make your head explode. Otherwise, be sure to have a look at the following. This is what we call mandatory reading, as my History teacher used to say, before completely f*cking with us and setting the paper on the OTHER Shakespeare play, the one you never read and then fell asleep during the movie because you were out the previous night at Club Vibe in Lansdowne? (Yeah, I've been around)
Anyhoo, have a gander at these crackers, they might make you shit yourself in awe, so best wear a nappy while you read them:
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