JAG Night II

It's Saturday evening at The HQ, and The Girlfriend is busy painting my toenails whilst braiding my hair at the same time. She is interrupted by the shrill ring of the phone, causing her to panic and yank out a handful of my luxurious mane. While she attempts to stem the bleeding and wipe away my tears, I answer the phone in my trademark husky voice.

"This is Shaun Oakes," I answer in my trademark husky voice.
"Hey Shaun Oakes. It's The Brand Ambassador," said The Brand Ambassador, "Are you crying?"
"...No... What do you want, The Brand Ambassador?"
"I'm throwing a little soiree at Blush Lounge, formerly known as Bossa Nova. Are you up for it?"
"Only if I'm well looked after, The Brand Ambassador. Only if I'm well looked after."
"I'm The Brand Ambassador. Of course you will be well looked after."

Two hours later, myself, The Gupster and The Brand Ambassador found ourselves at Blush Lounge, which was once known as Bossa Nova many moons ago. It's another JAG (Just All Guys) night, and with tables bedecked with booze, and two blonde angels at our beck and call, we quickly settle in. A large transparent clock mysteriously appears out of nowhere, signalling that a good deal of time is quickly going by. I point this out to The Brand Ambassador, who looks at me strangely and advises me to sit a couple of rounds out.

While The Gupster is busy swapping numbers with one of the angels, I take a stroll through the club. I see a former classmate from my days at Catholic primary school. I desperately try and duck behind a chubby fellow sucking face with his chubby girlfriend, but I'm not quick enough and the classmate spots me. She prances over, forcing me to swiftly apply my artificial smile. For the next few minutes I'm made to relive the glory days of story sums, playground banter and mid-morning prayers. She is literally boring the pants off me, I can feel it slowly wriggling down my waist. I consider using my tried and tested technique for when dealing with dull and uninteresting people, which involves me pretending to pass out in a state of utter inebriation. This has a 100% success rate, as people tend to stop talking once you collapse in front of them (it's a natural reaction - try it, you'll see).

What's preventing me from carrying this out though, is the fact that the floor seems rather sticky. Earlier, we saw another patron standing on the same spot for about 5 minutes, causing the bouncers to come over and have the unfortunate chap's feet amputated in order to free him from the confines of the tiled floors. (They gave him a couple of comps as an apology though, which he graciously accepted)

The Gupster walks toward us and, upon seeing our mutual classmate, finishes his drink and does a flying leap behind a velvet couch in one swift motion. Truly amazing stuff. His cat-like movements are not enough to escape her eye though and she prances over, forcing him to swiftly apply his artificial smile. For the next few minutes he is made to relive the glory days of scholar patrol, prefect duties and mid-afternoon prayers. (We prayed regularly at Catholic primary school) In the meantime I'm chatting to Thabo From Jozi, who is telling me about a personal mantra he lives his life by - J.U.I.C.E - which equates to "Join Us In Creating Excitement". It all sounds pretty impressive and I'm determined to remember it, so I make him repeat it about 48 times, after which he doesn't seem that excited anymore, and doesn't really speak to me after that.

The first portion of the evening has really flown, like a brick hurled through a glass window by someone with a sturdy arm. It's Saturday night and we are presented with two options - FTV Cafe, where more free booze and snacks await, or Opium, where a group of young flossies are awaiting The Gupster. We decide to flip a coin - heads for FTV, tails for Opium. Bizarrely the coin lands upright, which as everyone knows, means a visit to Tiger Tiger in Claremont.

Driving like the wind over the Atlantic on a Winter's day, we arrive at Tiger Tiger. We are greeted at the entrance by a bloodied gentleman being lead out by the always helpful doormen of the club. Despite bleeding profusely, he seems in good spirits, telling us to enjoy our night. Being polite gentlemen, we respond in kind, telling him drive safely as we watch him being dragged away. Upon arriving at the door, we are told that Tiger Tiger is having a "White Party", which makes me uncomfortable, and I threaten to call in Barry (the Token Black Guy) who I have on speed dial. The stamp girl assures me that there is no racial overtone, the decor is merely white and there is an assortment of white balloons, white sand and white people inside. "But there are blacks and coloureds inside too" she quickly adds, and I put the cellphone away. Having our reservations placated, we arrive and begin with the first of many drinks orders. A large transparent clock mysteriously appears out of thin air again, but no one seems to see it except me. I decide to switch to beer for a bit

With the match played earlier at Newlands stadium (Stormers 10 - Shark 36), the place is crawling with players, closely followed by an assortment of groupies and flossies. At the bar, I bump into Bob Skinstad, who again thanks me for giving him my blessing to sign for the Sharks. I give him a reassuring pat on the back and head toward The Gupster, who is busy loading up his harpoon gun and sailor cap in anticipation of a little whaling. The Brand Ambassador is starting to feel tired, it seems. He's become very snappy and didn't laugh at a joke about cats I had made earlier on, which hurt my feelings as I thought it was really funny. We decide to watch The Gupster hooking up with a large whale for a bit - which is amusing at first - but the novelty soon wears off though and we start feeling weird watching the two go at it. I'm feeling gassy and head off to a bathroom cubicle. There, I let off one of the greatest and pleasurable farts of my life. I look down and literally see my stomach deflating, showing my taut and ripped abs. The wind breaker is long, lasting the entire length of a Robbie Williams treffer, and there are tears of joy in my eyes at the end of it. The smell is appalling though - as I leave the stall, I warn the oncoming gentleman to give this one a miss. He is cocky and arrogant though, and thinks he has seen it all. As I head out I turn around to find him flat on his back, possibly dead.

We decide to call time and head on out past (passed? I don't know anymore) the rushing paramedics. On the way to the car, The Gupster cracks a lame joke with a vague reference to tonight's adventures. We all laugh simultaneously, then all three of us freeze in still motion mid-laugh, as corny rock music plays and credits begin rolling down from the sky. Till the next JAG night.



[ | ]

Did you enjoy this post? Of course you did! Now join my growing army of subscribers and get free updates in your Inbox whenever I write something breathtakingly new. Become cool by association and get ShaunOakes.com in your Inbox.