It was 8:30 at the Favourite Son household, it was coffee time, and I had put three sugars in The Girlfriend's cuppa instead of her usual two. Normally, this would result in her beating the bare soles of my feet with extra dry droe wors, but on this occasion she was in a PARTICULARLY foul mood, and decided to punish me accordingly.


Chicks. In A Flick.

So it came to pass then, that I found myself at the cinema watching The Jane Austen Book Club, a bonafide chick flick if ever there was one.

Just so we're clear, the definition of a chick flick is the following: Any film which does not contain violence and strong language, does not contain gratuitous sex, does not contain computer generated special effects but DOES star the actor Mark Ruffalo or the guy from Grey's Anatomy.

That is a chick flick.

From what I understood, the basic plot revolves around the following - Six women, tired of being messed around by the disappointing men in their life, decide to start a book club to discuss the works of Jane Austen. They then embark on a journey of discovery, realising the parallels that their relationships have with the novels they are reading.

It stars Maggie Grace, who was the hot chick from Lost, before she got killed.

I'm not going to lie - I DID get into this film and ended up enjoying it. Although the movie seemed to suggest that most men are unsophisticated Neanderthals, I found myself smiling and giggling away with all the quirky little jokes and bits of humour where one least expects it.

It's a movie you might take your mom to go and watch, probably your girlfriend too. I wouldn't take both of them together though, as they will probably gang up on you afterward and accuse you of being an unsophisticated Neanderthal.

Give it a watch sometime.

[ | ]

The highlight of the Oscar ceremony last night, Gary Busey gatecrashes Ryan Seacrest's interview with Jennifer Garner on the red carpet.

Gary Busey Has Lost His Marbles.

Busey is clearly off his rocker, and claims to have been searching for Ryan Seacrest for years, who we find out is apparently very difficult to find, like a rare diamond or a chest of stolen Aztec gold.

"What have I done?" asks Seacrest when hearing this startling bit of news.

"It's what you HAVEN'T done" Busey replies somewhat cryptically, and we see Ryan literally shitting himself as he gets stared down by the crazed blonde.

Mind you, Gary DOES get to suck on the luscious neck of Jennifer Garner, so maybe he isn't so crazy after all.

Kudos to you, Gary Busey.

And that is all.

[ | ]

Celine Dion.

As a young turk progressing through the ranks at Catholic Primary School, we learnt on a daily basis the importance of accountability when f**king up on something.

Punishment usually consisted of being lectured for 45 minutes in a poorly ventilated room with old Father Barnabus, an ancient priest with breath so bad, it would literally make your nostrils burn. This taught us a simple rule - If you're going to do something, make sure you do it properly.

Clearly the organisers of the recent Celine Dion concert in Vergelegen Wine Estate, Cape Town, never spent any time with Father Barney and his good friend Halitosis, or they would never have produced such a debacle. The Hotel Chick, who attended the Saturday show, reported back on the incompetent organisation, which included:

• Being stuck in the car for hours on the way through, with traffic moving so slowly she was able to take a nap and read the Da Vinci Code, from start to finish.
• Paying R900 for a Golden Circle ticket, and then having to physically fight her way through to the area, as the concert became a free-for-all and ushers were unable to regulate who went where.
• Being told by one of the ushers not to bother getting food or drink, as "the queues are too long, and there is not enough stalls".
• Managing to obtain a picnic hamper, only to discover that it did not contain a bottle of wine.

Cape Talk discussed this on the Sunday morning, with several callers voicing similar complaints, so clearly someone dropped the ball.

Apparently, someone also began spreading rumours that local singer Danny K would be performing at the event, causing many people to turn their cars around in blind panic, and head for the hills or nearby bomb shelters, which obviously further complicated things.

With KFM attaching their name to the event, I'm sure they must be pretty pissed off with proceedings and it will be interesting to see if they address the complaints on air or simply skirt around it. (The show itself was pretty amazing from all accounts).

[ | ]

The Labia. Experienced By Shaun.

As an adventurous and free spirit, I am someone who enjoys trying weird and wonderful things at least once, and will then often try it again and again, like a fat child who doesn't know when to stop eating. Recent first-time adventures include using this "Google" thing (3 weeks ago) as well as having sex (2 weeks ago).

So it was with great excitement then, when The Girlfriend took me to the Labia Theatre, in Orange Street, Cape Town.

Whenever I think of The Labia Theatre, my mind invariably turns to screenings of off-beat artsy films, gay and lesbian cinema festivals, weirdly dressed hippies and slightly mouldy old people in soft pastel colours. This isn't necessarily the case though. Sure, all of these ARE there, although to be fair to the hippies - they were not THAT weirdly dressed - one of them had on the same pair of Hello Kitty sandals that I was sporting.

... Not LITERALLY the same pair, obviously. It was identical to mine. We were both wearing our own pairs. They just happened to be identical.

Anyhoo, at the Labia, you have the ability to drink copious amounts of alcohol whilst watching your film, a right I have long fought over with the management of Ster Kinekor as well as Nu Metro, who unjustly seem to frown upon this, and who have regularly ejected me whenever I bring out a trusty six-pack from the confines of the rucksack I carry around with me.

The Labia seating arrangements are also far superior to the larger complexes, allowing you to bring a blanket, a basket and basically have a picnic in your seat. It's that big.

A bit of a Cape Town institution, it was opened way back in 1940, by Queen Labia, the famous Cape Town transvestite who just wanted a place to watch his movies and drink his beer, without getting hassled by Ster Kinekor and Nu Metro staff. And so a cultural hotspot was developed, and became a place much loved by hundreds of regular patrons, like Table Mountain, or the slightly skanky-looking blonde who lives in the block of flats next to the HQ. (What DOES she do?)

What is interesting is that apparently the Labia might be closing down. As anyone who has driven passed will know, there is currently a lot of construction taking place. Rumours seem to suggest that the owners are mulling with the idea of selling it off, to be demolished and replaced with luxury 2-bedroomed flats.

Which means I may have to smuggle beers into my rucksack again, and risk being crushed by the fearsome Neville, from the Cavendish Ster Kinekor.

Seriously, he could - I heard he has a bionic arm.

You can contact the Labia at (021) 424 5927 or email them at theatre@labia.co.za to find out what's playing.

[ | ]

Old People. Saying The Things That Old People Say.

The most unpleasant thing about attending a funeral, besides the obvious sadness over the loss of a loved one, is mingling with the really old people with bad breath who seem to magically appear at these events, in a puff of purple smoke and dry ice. You never see or hear from them for years, until you see them in the corner of the hall afterward, sipping on their tea and talking about their bad arthritis.

Many of them haven't seen you in decades, or probably haven't even met you before, but are merely friends and acquaintances of your grandparents from years long passed, when dinosaurs and hairy men in loin cloths roamed the earth. This doesn't seem to phase them though, and they will invariably try and chat with you whilst you nervously gulp down your orange juice and caramel cupcake.

This leads to the most inane conversation known to man, and invariably involves my (apparently) abnormal height. I normally try and entertain myself by being a complete arsehole, so the conversation usually plays out like this:

Old Person # 1: My word, but you've grown so tall?
Me: Well, yes, my mother and father are both tall. Genetically, this would lead to the probability that I would thus ALSO be tall. It's science, really.
Old Person # 1: ... Okay. (With a nod of the head, to signify their understanding of science)

Old Person # 2: Is that you? Wow, look how big you've become.
Me: Really? What do you mean... Jesus Hernandez! You're right! I HAVE grown! When the f**k did this happen? Have I been in a coma all these years? Well, this certainly came as a surprise, thanks for keeping me up to speed.

Old Person # 3: Hello young man, do you remember me? The last time I saw you, you were this high. (Points to his knee. Using his walking stick. Because he can't bend that low.)
Me: Well, if that were the case, do you REALLY expect me to remember you? I must have been about 3 years old then. Why on earth would I remember you from that time. Unless... wait... did you perhaps touch me inappropriately back then? Is that why I would remember you? What are you trying to tell me, pervert? Did I have to call you "uncle"? Are you in cahoots with the singer, Jurie Els? [Allegedly]

Old Person # 4: Hey, where are you growing to? (Followed by a chuckle at their perceived wit)
Me: I'm actually not growing, it's an optical illusion. I just wear really thick socks.

My attempts at sarcasm usually falls flat, and my mother ends up grabbing me by the ear and making me apologise to everyone I've offended in person. Which is a little embarrassing because I'm a grown man now and this makes the little kids laugh at me and call me names.

[ | ]

Shaun And His Filthy Looking Flat With The Cracked Wall.

" Rise and shine, handsome!" greeted The Girlfriend cheerfully, "It's the 14th February, do you know what that means?"

"I certainly do," I replied enthusiastically, reaching for my false teeth from the nearby glass tumbler. "The Sax Appeal is coming out today"

Unfortunately, I had misread the script and overestimated The Girlfriend's excitement toward UCT's yearly publication.

The 14th of February of course, ALSO happened to be Valentine's Day, an oversight which understandably lead to shards of glass finding it's way into my morning coffee, and my car tyres being slashed.

Besides that hairy start, the rest of the day went rather swimmingly. A romantic evening was enjoyed, consuming vast amounts of cream cheese and white wine, whilst singing along to various ditties by the balding genius that is Phil Collins.

Hopefully, everyone else had a lovely day as well.

Although to be honest, it wouldn't really faze me either way, I was just trying to make conversation.

Hope you have a good weekend though... Although again, see above.

[ | ]

Click On The Image And Make Your Vote.

Like an unattractive older woman sneaking up on her drunken prey, the SA Blog Awards have sprung up without warning, catching many of us with our pants around our ankles.

We did really well a few weeks back, getting the nod for the international blog nomination. Now it's time for the local version, and of course we simply HAVE to be there.

There is quite a large amount of categories this year, including a ridiculously egotistical one called "Best Post About The SA Blog Awards" - also known as the "Big F**king Wank" category.

The ones you SHOULD be taking note of though would be the following:

1) South African Weblog Of The Year
2) Most Humorous South African Weblog
3) Best Post On A South African Blog (we suggest http://www.shaunoakes.com/charity-volunteers-are-evil.htm)
4) Best Original Writing On A South African Blog

I've made it really easy for you, simply CLICK HERE and my details will automatically be added to the form.

You will need to add a reason WHY you've made the selection, but just say that I told you to, and then click the submit button at the bottom. Easy peasy.

Special mention can also go to a few other favourites, such as SLXS as well as Baglett.


Click On The Image And Make Your Vote.

[ | ]

Jack And Morgan Enjoying The Late Night E-TV Porn

It was movie night at the Favourite Son household, and that meant only one thing - we were going to watch a movie. Not just any movie though, we were in the mood for a special effects blockbuster, with digital surround sound to temporarily deafen us. Naturally then, we decided on The Bucket List, starring Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman.

The film centres around these two characters, (messrs Nicholson and Freeman) who are thrown together when forced to share a hospital room. They are both terminally ill, and thus decide to "go out with a bang", by compiling a list of things to do before they "kick the bucket". This includes skydiving, climbing the Himalayas, and motorcycling atop the Great Wall Of China. They are able to do this because Nicholson's character is ludicrously wealthy, whilst Freeman's character is a bit of a leach, who doesn't mind not having to pay his way.

Like the sub heading above suggests, it's a bit of a chick flick, except it's aimed at old men. Not gay old men, just old men in general. Mind you, gay old men WOULD probably enjoy this as well, as it's fairly broad and could appeal to most demographics. It's a decent feel-good little flick, although a tad predictable and at times overly sentimental - you will laugh with them, and you will most likely cry with them as well.

Because they die in the end.

...Huh? What do you mean I spoilt it for you? They were both TERMINALLY ill, that means there was no hope of recovery.

You could have seen that in the PREVIEW.

Don't be silly, I didn't spoil it for you...Come now, stop crying... Okay, I was just kidding, really they don't die.

A scientist develops a cure at the end and they both survive.

Seriously, that's how it ends.

[ | ]

It was Tuesday, and to celebrate it, The Girlfriend and I decided to exchange gifts. I got her a box of glass tumblers, as she had been moaning for months about having to make guests drink water straight from the tap, whilst she in turn gave me a pair of grey skinny jeans.

This obviously didn't sit well with me, as there are very few things I hate more than skinny jeans, especially grey ones.

"Why would you buy me this?", I demanded, and hurled it back at her in an ungrateful manner. This obviously didn't sit well with The Girlfriend - she hates it when I hurl things, as I throw like a girl - and a domestic row soon began. Unfortunately, I AGAIN underestimated how strong she is for such a petite woman, and she soon had me in a vicious full nelson neck hold, refusing to break it until I had apologised for my outburst, given her my pin number, and eaten the week-old chicken in the fridge.

Once I had finished throwing up, and taken my medication for the salmonella poisoning, I sat down and stared at my latest piece of clothing attire, trying to fathom the attraction these pants seem to have.

Why HAVE skinny jeans become so popular these days? Isn't it meant for women?


Skinny Jeans - Meant For Women?

As a red-blooded male, I can't think of anything worse than wearing skin-tight denim, which merely serves to highlight your chicken legs, as well as your overly large feet. Also, isn't it tight on the package? How uncomfortable must THAT be?


Skinny Jeans - How Uncomfortable Must THAT Be?

Clearly it must be, as the latest trend is for guys to wear it really low, basically hanging around their ankles. What's this? Are the Orange Organics auditioning for a new member? Is it Pugwall's turn to make an ironically fashionable comeback?

No, it's not quite time yet.

Guys, let's nip this skinny jeans thing in the bud. It's embarrassing, and makes my tummy feel funny.

[ | ]

Cape Town masochists and other locals looking to get messed around can now enjoy a new and exciting venue. Pepenero Restaurant is a seafood eatery in Mouille Point, Cape Town - that apparently strives to offer the WORSE customer service in the city. Which to all those familiar with past Cape Town experiences will agree, is no mean feat. These boys are not to be messed with though, and they pull it off with aplomb.

The food is fairly bland, but this can be excused as steak was ordered and they DO seem to be a seafood restaurant after all.

Payment time however, is when Pepenero's staff and management REALLY show their class.

It seems as if the restaurant policy is for the waitress to take your card, go off into the downstairs cellar and then begin writing out her 800 page memoir. Yes, this is how long it will take before you get to see your plastic again.

When you eventually get hold of the waitress in question, and request your card back, she will literally THROW it back at you.

Take in what I just wrote there... Sip on it slowly like a strong Jameson on the rocks.

I kid you not, she will actually do this. She will take your card and HURL it at you, like a javelin thrower, or a cavewoman hunting with a crudely-made spear.

Understandably surprised at this peculiar turn of events, you will look to the other waitrons and management for a reaction. The other waitrons will then come over, telling you that "Shame. She's actually having a tough time at the moment."

Oh, okay. That excuses everything. Of COURSE she can act like a wild chimpanzee, she's "actually having a tough time at the moment".

Shame.

To try and get some clarity out of this quite incredible farce, you will seek out the manager on duty, who will of course be on the phone. Although seeing you and realising that you need to speak to her, she will carry on with her conversation, and leave you standing there for several minutes, before your ego taps you on the shoulder and tells you to leave.

Which you then do.

Seriously, what on EARTH is going on, Pepenero's? Are you running a restaurant or a circus? Do you really expect people to come back after being treated like that?

Shocking and pathetic, the behaviour of the waitress was quite unacceptable - and needless to say - a certain bespectacled and ruggedly handsome Capetonian shall not be dining there in future.

What: Pepenero Restaurant (www.pepenero.co.za )
Where: No. 1, Two Oceans Beaches, Bay Road, Mouille Point
How Much: + - R200 per person. If they act like animals though, you can just leave without paying.

[ | ]

I normally fill up on petrol at the Engen in Tokai, near the Blue Route Mall, as the staff there basically have sex with my car, such is their love and gentle touch, which makes the automobile giddy and giggly like a little school girl.

The other day, whilst having my tyres checked, a shabbily dressed man leaned into my window and tried to speak with me. Instinctively, my finger reached for the window button, swiftly jamming his head up against the roof of the car - a suitable punishment for his act of insolence. He proved to be quite a tenacious bugger though - the sharp pains in his neck didn't seem to affect him - and he carried on speaking to me, his head firmly wedged in by my electric window.

Basically he needed some change for petrol, he was on his way to Fish Hoek, and had managed to run out of gas.

What difference my R5 would make in the greater scheme of things was beyond me, but I was feeling in a charitable mood, and so flung him some change as I pulled away, freeing him from the vice like grip I had him in.


Shaun - In A Charitable Mood

I didn't think much of it at the time, as I had just consumed 17 beers at the Brass Bell, and was thus more concerned with other pressing issues, such as where I lived, what my name was, and why there was a Hispanic gentleman tied up in my boot.

I was reminded of this incident yesterday however, when ANOTHER shabbily dressed man approached me at the SAME station, ALSO asking for petrol money. I'm not sure if it was the same guy (these white people all look the same) but I'm pretty sure that it was. I refused on this occasion - as I was feeling bitter and mean-spirited - and then watched as he shuffled back to his little Corsa, and just chilled there, waiting around for the next car to pull up.

Have our beggars evolved? Do they have cars now? I'm pretty sure he was going to mill around there long after I had left. I would imagine he could easily make a couple of hundred rant if he spent the day there, collecting R2 and R5 coins from customers feeling sorry for his sad little predicament.

I don't know if I am just being cynical, but I'm pretty sure this is some kind of con.

After all, can people be so stupid that they run out of petrol?

But they managed to make it to a petrol station?

How far can Fish Hoek BE anyway?

[ | ]

In news which will now doubt shock Cape Town to it's very core - like a thunderous earthquake or a really loud bang - The Gupster (Officially Cape Town's fifth most eligible bachelor) has reportedly been spotted holding hands with someone, obviously signifying a serious relationship, and has now given up his much coveted title.

Of Cape Town's fifth most eligible bachelor. In case we weren't clear.

This of course means those heady days of having sex with 19 women at the same time are over. As are the heavy petting sessions at Ignite's back bar which usually involved a young flossie (floozie), her sister, their mother, as well as two members of their extended family. We could also mention that little fling with a certain blonde hotel heiress, but we won't go there.


The Gupster - Who Was That Blonde Hotel Heiress?

By the way, PLEASE refrain from asking about the first four eligible bachelors as EVERYONE knows that they're all rather inconsequential and speaking about them will make you sound quite ignorant.

[ | ]

It was a tepidly warm Friday evening, and I was knocking back copious amounts of chilled Ken Forresters, as one is prone to do on tepidly warm Friday evenings.

The evening was going well - I later planned on consuming vast amounts of Flings (baked, not fried), finishing another bottle of Chenin Blanc, whilst watching a light hearted comedy - preferably one starring the reliable actor Mark Ruffalo.

Just then the lights went out, leading to a great wailing and gnashing of teeth. Moving swiftly with all the nimbleness of an elegant gazelle, I managed to fend off the initial attack by The Girlfriend, who somewhat irrationally accused me of not paying the electricity bill.

"But Eskom didn't advertise any load shedding," was her bizarre reasoning, as if this had previously prevented the electricity giant from pissing on our dreams.

With no power at The HQ, and The Girlfriend refusing to sleep with me, we decided to head down to Long Street with The Project Manager and Kim. Funnily enough, not much was happening down there either, and so we moved from one disappointing venue to the next, bamboozling poor bar staff who were now forced to work out the price of four R12 beverages in their heads, obviously causing it to explode.

Their heads. Not the beverages.

Things were looking desperate, we had just caused the death of our third barman, and we were now rather bored with it all. Just then we received an important phone call, as one often does at a critical point in the movie plot, when things are looking dire.

News filtered through of a club armed with a generator - where music and intelligent lighting awaited us - and so we quickly dashed into the automobile, like hungry fat kids looking for a slice of chocolate cake.

In a hazy blur of fast driving, sharp turns and knocking over a pesky vagrant or two, we ended up at a strange warehouse. Staggering up the stairs, I was greeted to a rather strange party consisting of electro music, bad fashion and even worse dancing. The penny dropped - this was an 80's party.


What You Might Wear At An 80's Party.

Content that this was MY scene, I jumped in with both feet, sending a poor patron flying across the dancefloor with foot prints all over her leopard-skinned ass.

Jamming to the likes of The Bangles and The Pet Shop Boys, we spent the rest of the night at this club called The Assembly, which apparently has many a themed party. The venue is quite spacious for the Cape Town scene, where most clubs are usually the size of a UK 10 shoe box.

At the Assembly, the large dancefloor easily allowed me to do my famous chicken dancing routine, whilst the others hid in one of the many dark corners of the club, pretending that they didn't know me. To cut a medium-sized story short, the night sailed by, like a drunken yachtsman taking his boat for a joyride through the Waterfront harbour.

I eventually arrived home at an ungodly hour, felt my way to the bedroom using Braille, and collapsed in an exhausted heap. I awoke the next morning to find a bottle of Hansa Marzen Gold wedged in my mouth, which merely confirmed the awesome night that was CLEARLY had by all.

So next time you're in town, and Eskom decides to take a wee in your glass of sparkling mineral water, thus COMPLETELY spoiling it for you, pay a visit to The Assembly, which seems to be immune to their evil ways.

Pay a visit to their (admittedly kak looking) website at www.theassembly.co.za

Bood Gye.

[ | ]

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