Thursday Morning. Food Deli at Pick n Pay, Gardens Cape Town.
Me: Hi there. Deli Worker: ... Me: Hi there, I would like some Eisbein, please. Deli Worker: No Eisbein. Me: Oh? Has it been sold out, or do you not stock any at this store? Deli Worker: No Eisbein. Me: Okay, thanks again for confirming that. Do you usually sell it though? Deli Worker: There is no Eisbein. Me: Yes, I think we've established that now, but I'm trying to find out if you ever have Eisbein, or if you're just out on this occasion. Deli Worker: Yes. Me: Yes? Deli Worker: Yes. Me: Yes, you usually have it and have sold everything today, or yes, you don't stock it here at the store? Deli Worker: Yes. Me: Yes... Deli Worker: Next customer. Me: Haaai Yaah!
Shaun responds with a roundhouse karate kick, which extends over the counter, knocking off the head of the unhelpful deli worker.
[Plop. Deli Worker's head lands in the nearby humus.]
An Extract From Shaun's As Yet Unpublished, But AWESOME, Novel.
It's almost August, and what better way to celebrate it than by releasing an extract of my as-yet-unpublished, but freakishly brilliant novel, called Wasted on the Weekend? The story focuses on protagonist Dave, our reluctant anti-hero who struggles to accept the fact that getting wasted on the weekend will not suffice any longer, and in fact, his life is being WASTED on the WEEKEND. (See what I did there?) It's a 200 page epic journey of discovery, and I'm about 60% of the way done, so here with just a taste of what some people are calling the "greatest book ever written - well, since the Bible, at least."
Read and enjoy...
I just spilt my drink on myself. F*ck. This happens every time we go out. I nonchalantly try and wipe my shirt, pretending that nothing’s happened but it’s too late. Shane has already spotted me and has physically wet himself with laughter, which annoys me as it happens so often it can’t be that funny any more can it? With a shrug I ignore his guffaws and turn to Ryan, who’s been eyeing the leggy blonde at the next table for the last half hour. She’s not bad looking, with a tight-fitting white blouse which shows off her curves, and a short black skirt complimenting her shapely thighs. She’s been downing tequila shots with her three girlfriends, who are all dogs, so she’s definitely the pick of the bunch.
If Ryan displays his usual ineptitude, I might make a move myself I think. I’m about to send Ryan to the bar, but he’s up before I open my mouth. He saunters over toward the blonde’s table. Shane, who’s stopped laughing by now thank God, sits up and looks at me with a bemused expression. Ryan’s not the type of guy to just brazenly walk up to someone and chat them up. Although regarded by many as the “looker” in our little trio – a moniker which I find quite offensive – he sadly lacks any semblance of self confidence. I suspect it has something to do with his webbed toes and all those traumatic days in swimming class, but I’m not keen on probing too much, I’m not a therapist and I don’t really have any interest in his mental well being.
Ryan is almost at the table. The three hyenas are laughing hysterically at some or other anecdote being told. He’s at the table… and then he’s gone. I smile to myself as he walks past the leggy blonde and moves on to the bar. A typical, and rather pathetic little move he likes to pull. To alleviate his fear of rejection, he needs absolute confirmation that a girl is interested in him. This was the first play in his little rule book – the casual walk passed hoping to make some eye contact.
In his warped mind, if she is interested she would have maintained eye contact for two or three seconds longer than normal. He will probably be hovering around her line of sight for the rest of the night now, waiting for her to make the first move. Ryan comes back to our table with the beers, with a satisfied smile on his face, which obviously means she gave him a look. “I do believe she’s into me” he tells us rather pompously, as I take a gulp of my beer. I feel like punching him in the solar plexus for that pathetic little play, but I manage to compose myself. It’s Friday night in the middle of the hottest summer in decades, and the year is almost at an end, it’s a long weekend and things are looking good. I’ve just received a promotion at the firm I work at, so naturally I’m in a cheerful mood.
Shane, Ryan and myself have been clubbing in this same strip for the last two years. Strangely, we’ve never tired of the place, what with the cheap booze, easy women and about five or six clubs all within walking distance. This is our first stop, Goodfellas, a sort of bar/pub where we normally get the ball rolling for the night. We’ve been here for about an hour now, and my beer level is rising to a suitable level.
“Shit Dave, look who’s here” Shane says as I’m interrupted from my reflective state of mind. It’s Claire, my “stalker” if you will. I met her here one night about a year ago, fed her some cheesey lines about how beautiful her eyes were, what an angel she was – the type of superficial bullshit that chicks like her love to hear. It clearly did the trick as I tapped her that very night on the hard wooden floor of my lounge (my bed was filthy, but I still gave her the best 45 seconds of her life), and went out with her a few times after that. (I pushed my record up to a minute thirty on our third date) The sex was obviously great as she suddenly turned from sweet, sexy Claire into uber-psycho Claire and I couldn’t adjust my ball sack without her wanting to know what I was doing. We broke up when she threatened to knife said ball sack (they’re precious to me) and I spent the following weeks in a fearful state at home, watching the Friday night movie, and reassuring my penis that everything was going to be okay. She’s since calmed down and apologized to me but I still find myself urinating in my pants a little whenever I see her.
She sees me and comes over. “Hi there” she says and I give her the biggest smile I can muster. “Hi Claire, how are you doing?” I ask, not really caring but obliged to ask all the same. Unfortunately, Claire is part of that small percentage of people in the world, who think that the question, “How are you”, requires them to actually tell you what their mental state of mind is at that point in time. For the next ten minutes I am forced to listen to her telling me about what’s been going on in her life, from her cat she has just bought to the boyfriend she has just broken up with.
Although tempted to fling myself out through the nearby window, I restrain myself and just nod sympathetically. She is boring the pants off me - I can actually feel them wriggling down my waist - and so I desperately try and end the conversation using a tried and trusted technique I’ve developed over the years. This involves looking directly over her shoulder as if someone’s just caught my attention and cutting off her sentences with words like “ – anyway” and “ - yeeeah” – which I stretch out long and slowly. If this doesn’t work I will contemplate using my last desperate tactic of collapsing on the floor in a state of utter inebriation. This has been known to kill any conversation in it’s tracks, but it’s too early in the night to be that drunk - and besides - the floor at Goodfellas is notoriously filthy. Also, I’m wearing a lovely white shirt which I just purchased a few days before so that is clearly not an option. I notice the beer bottle in my hand and begin contemplating what she would do if I had to suddenly poke her with it – not painfully, I’d never hit a woman – just a little poke which would make me look really strange and would make her want to get away from me. Thankfully, Claire finally finishes he little mini rant about love and life and goes off with to the bar with friends. I breathe easier as I see her go and my balls hang loose from their previous tight defensive position, re-adding valuable bulge to my crotch region. (although I still think I soiled myself)
I turn my attention back to my two buddies who are engrossed in a conversation about the pros and cons of wearing shirts as opposed to t-shirts. This remarkably bland topic tells me that the two are starting to feel the copious amount of alcohol we’ve been gulping down. I leave my table and strut over to the bar, trying to look as cool and desirable as is humanly possible. I see three girls I know at the bar and I saunter over to have a chat. As I greet them I realize that I don’t remember their names and I begin to rack my brain as we converse. They are all raven-haired beauties and I’m pretty sure I hooked up with at least two of them some time ago. I know the one had a tattoo of a butterfly on her left thigh, and we had filthy raw sex for at least two minutes if memory serves. The bar is quite busy and as I wait to order, I carry on making inconsequential small talk. They don’t seem to mind, which is probably down to the fact that I slept with two of them. There are also about six empty cider bottles around them, so they are pretty pissed as well, but I think it’s mainly because I slept with two of them
I feel a tap on my shoulder and I turn around to see Gareth, an annoying stain on the underwear that is my life. He’s about the same age as I am, twenty-something, but that’s where the similarities end. He’s a rather annoying piece of work, and for some obscure reason thinks the two of us are buddies. “Hey buddy” he says, thus proving my point, and gives me his familiar little handshake routine, which requires me to have a double jointed thumb and index finger in order to carry it out correctly. “Hey Gareth” I say, with false welcome in my voice, secretly hoping this will be a greeting-in-passing.
I notice with sick horror that one of my dark-haired lovelies is checking him out, giving him a thorough once-over, the type of once-over you give when you want to check out the colour of someone’s bed sheets. Gareth still lives with his mom so his bed sheets will probably be clean and fresh but that’s not the point. He gives her his trademark smile, a toothy, off-white grin which years of nicotine and coffee tends to produce, and introduces himself. At least I’ll be able to get her name now, maybe her friend with the butterfly on her ass as well. Unfortunately my eardrums are hit by the booming voice of 50 Cent over the speakers. Shit, the volume’s just picked up. Can’t hear what she said. Sounded like Melanie. It doesn’t matter though, as I am now totally put off by her interest in Gareth. She clearly had more than two ciders, and she must have smoked 17 joints before arriving here as well. I can’t believe I actually slept with her. Or was it her friend? Did I in fact sleep with her? I’m sorely tempted to ask and confirm my suspicion, but think better of it. I get my drinks and give the girls and Gareth a friendly “speak to you later” which I plan on doing like I plan on getting my prostate checked. I get back to our table and join in on the great shirt / t-shirt debate.
After a few minutes of furious lobbying from both sides, I decide on Ryan’s theory that a good shirt gives the wearer a touch of class which automatically makes them better looking. I suppose I am being rather biased as I am, in fact, wearing a shirt myself, which the other two fail to pick up on. Oh well, I’m convinced it’s a good point anyway, although I believe I might have felt differently had we had this conversation a few hours earlier.
Actually, a few hours earlier we wouldn’t have had this meaningless conversation at all, this being an alcohol induced debate. I suddenly feel very self conscious and look around wearily, in case anyone overheard our engaging conversation topic. Not likely though, as the DJ is now is full swing and the music is blaring. This is a good place to get pissed, not good for dancing though which is probably due to the sticky nature of the floor, as mentioned earlier. We gulp down our beers and head on toward to our next destination, which is just across the road. The night is but a foetus, as my dear old grandmother used to say.
Besides the Hardy Boys mystery books and Scope magazine, Batman comics were always a popular reading choice as a young lad growing up in the psychedelic 80's. The dark, eerie and sometimes scary tone was never quite reflected on the big screen however. Sure, there were attempts in previous incarnations - besides Batman and Robin, which was incredibly mediocre and rather camp - but it was only in Batman Begins that the true essence of the Caped Crusader was really captured.
This continues with The Dark Knight, the sequel starring Christian Bale and the late Heath Ledger. This movie has been hyped up to the Moon, what with all the anticipation after the success of the previous film, together with the tragic death of Ledger.
So is it worth all the hype?
Well, yes and a small no.
To be frank, the movie is awesome, and if you enjoyed Batman Begins, you will love this one. It doesn't feel like a comic book adaptation - what with the dark tone, together with the rather well-rounded characters, making it play out more like an action thriller.
The basic plot sees Gotham City being terrorised by the Joker, a psychotic killer excellently played by Ledger, in his last movie role. It couldn't have come at a worse time for Batman however, as he is feeling the burden of being the city's hero, and wants to give it all up for the affections of his true love, Rachel Dawes, played on this occasion by Maggie Gyllenhaal. Also thrown into the mix is new hotshot District Attorney Harvey Dent, played by Aaron Eckhardt, who also happens to be Rachel's squeeze. So we are left with a conflicted hero involved in a love triangle, all in the backdrop of the Joker's reign of terror.
Everyone has been talking about whether Ledger should get an Oscar for his performance and my opinion is this - whilst it certainly was a great portrayal, I think the fact that he's death has clouded people's judgement. He certainly produces the goods here, but I did find myself being reminded of Jack Nicholson during many scenes, so clearly some inspiration was taken from Nicholson's earlier role, albeit with a darker persona. Disregarding the media publicity around his performance though, you're still left with a movie that will entertain the masses.
The Dark Knight has an engaging story line, characters with depth, and the obligatory awe-inspiring special effects. Be warned though, the movie is NOT uplifting in the least, one the contrary it's quite haunting and even now I'm on a bit of a downer thinking about it.
It's definitely the Event movie for the next few months though and should be compulsory viewing for everyone.
I was at Karma Lounge in Camps Bay on Saturday night and, after consuming copious amounts of Hansa Marzen Gold, decided it would be a good idea to head off to the Men's Room, rather than just standing there and soiling myself.
Whilst washing my hands, another gentleman arrived from the nearby urinals, wet two of his fingers (his index and middle finger) and then headed on out, drying his hand on his jean pant.
"Hello there," I greeted enthusiastically. The soap dispenser is over here, I motioned with my nose.
He looked at me quizzically, and then retorted, "I don't need to use soap. I only pee'd."
This episode left me rather curious. Do most people not use soap when they wash their hands after peeing. I know a guy who actually washes his hands BEFORE he unzips and pees, his argument being that your hands would come into more contact with germs than your penis would.
So let's hear what you have to say. Do you wash your hands, do you merely wet them, do you not do anything at all?
As everyone knows, Facebook is the perfect tool for catching up with old buddies and stalking ex-girlfriends. Because of the sheer popularity of this little website (there are currently 95 million people using it in South Africa alone) the head honchos at Facebook are regularly making little tweaks and changes to the site.
So we had things like the Facebook chat and... and... other stuff which escapes me now, the point is they are always changing things, stop questioning me, what the f*ck?
Anyhoo, what they have done now is to completely change their layout again. You might not get a clear indication from the pic above, but you will get a better understanding by the doing the following:
Log into Facebook.
Change the "www" with "new" and then see the results.
It was Emile's farewell a few weeks ago, and so naturally we decided to have it at Cape to Cuba in Long Street, where we had
lots of fun previously. Here with some pictorials from the event.
Cape to Cuba: An awesome little venue, many people will of course be familiar with the one in Kalk Bay. This one is in Long Street and is infinitely cooler because, well, the other one is in Kalk Bay.
Product Placement: Tony C and Some Other Guy casually advertise their beverages (for which they were paid a handsome fee). Some Other Guy also takes the opportunity to show off the new indigenous fern he has growing on his left shoulder, something which took several months to successfully cultivate, and which is apparently quite a hit with the ladies.
Everyone Look At Tom: Kim and Emile stare in amazement at Tom Cruise, who decided to pop in for a quiet drink and a cigar or two. Dani wasn't too concerned with the Hollywood star though, as she was kind of over him after all his crazy antics these last 18 months, and covered her face in embarrassment.
It's Getting Hot In Herre, So Take Off All Your Clothes: Some Other Guy was getting "hot in herre" (not a typo) but instead of taking off all his clothes, he perspired vigorously instead, which freaked out a lot of people as he tends to have a rather sweaty solar plexus.
Take A Look At This: Emile proudly shows off the YouTube clip of Will Ferrell's "More Cowbell" skit, which he copied onto his camera, and which impressed Fabian and Some Other Guy immensely.
Everyone Needs More Cowbell: Fabian was so chuffed, he decided to show the clip to the giant bottle of Pongracz who was chilling with them, trying to be incognito. The giant bottle of Pongracz didn't find it that funny though, because he had actually seen it before.
Tot volgende keur daan. Geniet julle vakansie almal. (as they say down in the middle East)
It was Saturday and I had the sudden urge to watch a live football match at Newlands rugby stadium. As fate would have it, there just HAPPENED to be one scheduled for that day, between a team called Kaizer Chiefs and a team called Manchester United, so I made like Tom and cruised over there.
Side note: Who watched him on Oprah last night? Anyone notice how he and Katie kinda look the same these days? It must be like having sex with yourself, except you have a vagina. Would that be considered gay? Or is it narcissistic? Something to debate for another time.
Anyhoo, the game was a pretty lively affair, and is similar to rugby, in that you have some guys kicking a ball from one side of the field to the other. I had just settled down and was enjoying some fine cuisine - a salty chip roll, drenched in tomato sauce, vinegar and someone's fingernails - when I heard what sounded like a wild Addo elephant climaxing as he finished shagging his elephant wife, doggy-style.
I quickly turned to my right - as I've always been a great fan of elephants, and love seeing them out of their natural habitat, as I find they tend to be creatures of habit and are seemingly reluctant to try new things - but was instead greeted by a callow youth blowing on a long, red horn with all his might.
"What the f*ck do you have there?," I enquired politely, as I motioned for him to hand it over.
"It's a vuvuzela," he replied defiantly, and then felt the need to further substantiate this claim with another deep blast, simultaneously hurting both my eardrums as well as his chances of coming out of this alive.
Vuvuzelas - Blow Them In My Ear And Sign Your Own Death Warrant.
With all the agility of a wild Canadian otter, I feinted an attack from the left, then struck from the right flank, pinning him up against the wall as one would do to a small child who refuses to give off his pocket money on the playground. His mother, a large and rather sweaty looking woman with "Ronaldo 7" stretched across her back, seemed unconcerned as I pried away the red horn from the desperate clasp of her offspring.
It seems as if these "vuvuzelas" are like little plastic horns, designed to annoy old white people who live around the stadium, I soon noticed that virtually every second person at Newlands was armed with one. When blown at the same time, the racket it generates is the equivalent of a large bomb going off, or The Girlfriend freaking out when she catches me walking around in her high heels.
Sure, the vuvuzela can also be used to chugg down beer, or to smack people over the head when they owe you money - but other than that I don't really think I'm a fan. It's helluva popular among the soccer loving folk and who knows, it may even catch on with the rugby loving folk - if only to give them something else to do with their mouths, instead of smoking, swearing at their wives and chanting "Ole ole ole ole...ole...ole".
With the whole "Soccer World Cup" thing that's apparently happening in 2010, we will likely see more and more of these contraptions on the streets, so be prepared. You can apparently learn more about it and even purchase them, at the following website - http://www.boogieblast.co.za
My Sunday evenings are usually spent trying to serenade The Girlfriend with my emotionally charged rendition of Ricky Martin's "Livin La Vida Loca". I had a sore throat though, so on this occasion we decided to listen to someone else sing instead. So it came to pass then, that we found ourselves seated at The Green Dolphin in the Waterfront, listening to aKing and Taxi Violence, doing their respective acoustic sets.
Taxi Violence At The Green Dolphin.
It's all part of the Levi's Vintage Sunday vibe, where local rock bands tone it down for the Sunday crowd, who tend to avoid the head banging and moshing on the Sabbath. I don't usually dig the whole live band thing, but I found myself bobbing my head and snapping my fingers with the rest of the crowd. Taxi Violence are quite well known in Cape Town, and you would probably have heard a few of their songs on the old "wireless". I haven't really heard of aKing before last night, but they had a cool name and a pretty pop/rock style that I enjoy, so they are worth a listen too. Apparently this happens every fortnight and the bands are changed regularly.
You should probably go and check it out one Sunday, although I wouldn't recommend buying drinks at the Green Dolphin - I ordered a double Jameson (on the rocks) and a Grapetiser and it came to 60 rarnt, so rather drink outside in the car first, and don't let the waitrons bother you - maybe order a glass of lime if you want, and sip on it throughout the night.
They will probably eyeball you and give you dirty looks, but just ignore them, you aren't there for them, you're there for the bands - no one said they had to charge R20 for a small Grapetiser anyway, so it's really all their fault.
So there you have it - a short and sweet little Monday number, just the way I like my women.
It's the 18th of July, which of course means it's Nelson Mandela's 90th birthday. Jesus Hernandez, that's QUITE a long innings, full of great stroke play and the occasional quick single, with one or two stoppages for rain (give or take 27 years).
Happy birthday Madiba, hope the day proves to be everything you hoped it would be, and you get lots of gifts and presents, which is actually the same thing, so I'm being redundant right now.
On a related note, it ALSO happens to be The Brand Ambassador's birthday which is pretty amazing if you think about it. I mean, come on, how many South African legends get to share a birthday? None that I can think of, besides Madiba and The Rep.
Kurt isn't turning 90 (as far as I know) but he has also had quite the icon none the less, so kudos to the both of them.
Madiba And The Brand Ambassador Sharing A Fish Eagle Brandy. Totally Authentic, I Don't Know Why The Picture Looks So Fake Though.
Seriously, congratulations to the old man. I haven't had the pleasure of actually meeting him in person (I'm one of the 57 people in South Africa who haven't met
him as yet) but I've met The Brand Ambassador on numerous occasions so that's pretty cool as well.
I don't usually do this, but I was running low on material, and so decided to take the opportunity of being tagged to share some random facts about myself today, as I'm quite an elusive and mysterious character - like a wily black panther that lives up on the smoky mountains, and comes down every now and then to kill an obnoxious missionary, who flew down from the colonies to teach the villagers about the word of God and Soduku, which is a really popular game and something everyone should know how to play.
So, in no particular order:
1) I have 27 strands of grey hair running down the side of my head, which I have individually named. (All deriving from a southern family related to the actor Patrick Swayze)
2) I am fiercely regular, thanks to a strict bran diet, and am usually unreachable by phone from 7:15am to 7:35 am every morning.
3) I am a big fan of Woolworths easy peelers, as they are so easy to peel.
4) I have abnormally long legs, and cannot reach my toenails, so I pay homeless people to cut them on a weekly basis, thus providing a boost to the economy, whilst ensuring that my nails are always well kempt.
5) I have a love affair with Ghost Pops as well as Flings, and eat them religiously, sometimes even inhaing them through my nose, like a trendy drug.
6) I have a morbid fear of public speaking, clowns with supernatural powers, as well as the number 47.
7) I once ate my entire body weight in Escort red viennas.
8) I once puked my entire body weight in Escort red viennas.
So there you have it, just another 8 reasons why I'm such an intriguing persona, like a strange old man you see in the street playing the violin, and who you think about constantly thereafter, even when you're sleeping with your husband (assuming you're a woman).
If you're a man you would probably be thinking about how cool the old guy played the violin, and would then resent your parents for not making you play the instrument when you were younger, forcing you to play hockey or tennis instead. Which you were really crap at, for what it was worth.
It was 7am on Tuesday, and I had just cupcaked The Girlfriend, as I tend to do most mornings after a hearty Thai meal. Strangely enough, she didn't really share my enthusiasm for this tradition and, after being revived by the smelling salts we keep in the kitchen, demanded that I start behaving in a more romantic manner.
"But lint ball," I countered, ''of course I'm romantic. Didn't I just get you a hundred red roses last month?"
I did get her a hundred roses the previous month, but I soon realised that she never received them, as I ended up getting hammered that night, and forgot them in the boot of my car. Although disappointed about the rose situation, I was also slightly relieved, as it meant that the weird smell emanating from the car was just decomposed flora, and NOT another vagrant squatting in my boot as I had initially feared.
Nevertheless, it was time for me to show my romantic side, and in desperation, I sent an sms to one of those mobile companies that advertise on the "television". It's advertisements that most people would be aware of, the ones which usually air late at night, when your brain is cooked, and the idea of owning a ringtone of a baby singing a Celine Dion ballad sounds like a great idea. This particular company promised to send me romantic tips for only 5 rarnt.
Expecting some amazing advice, the results have not exactly blown me away up till now.
"Always open your lady's door" - This proved to be terrible advice as the car was going at quite a speed. Suffice to say, she didn't really appreciate that little act of chivalry, and I earned a stiff kick in the groin for my efforts.
"Always ask what she wants to order first" - This doesn't really make sense as if I'm paying, surely I get to choose what she will be eating? Or am I missing something here?
"Send her a romantic poem every day" - I tried making a decent shout of this, and wrote the first one without too much fuss:
Roses are Red,
Violets are Blue,
I'm in the mood for some loving,
How about you?
After that, I sort of blanked out. Let's face it - it's pretty hard writing romantic rhymes every day of the week. Apparently there is another number I can sms to get free love poems, but that's another 5 rarnt a day, and I'm already starting to doubt the effectiveness of the first club I joined.
So to summarise, my car smells of bergie, my testicles are feeling "precious", my poetry is shit and I now have a hefty cellphone bill. (How does one unsubscribe?)
I felt like some adrenaline-pumping action, but The Girlfriend had another one of her mysterious recurring headaches, and so understandably wasn't in the mood to fool around. We thus decided to watch Wanted instead, the new film starring Angelina Jolie, Morgan Freeman and James McAvoy.
Wanted is a stylish and visually appealing action flick from the guy that directed Night Watch and Day Watch, two Russian films which broke box office records all over Russia, funnily enough. The plot sees McAvoy as an a absolute loser - he gets pushed around at work by his cake-loving boss, he lives in a dinghy apartment, and his girlfriend is cheating on him with his best friend.
His life changes however, as he discovers that his recently deceased father was part of a secret cult of assassins, and he is enlisted to join them. From here the movie kicks off into high-octane action, as McAvoy is transformed from shy introvert into confident killer. The special effects are pretty out there, think The Matrix meets Shoot 'Em Up, and you need to suspend disbelief at times, like when they fire guns at one another and their bullets collide. They are also able to make bullets curve in the air, and so are capable of killing people hiding around corners. The movie is pretty violent, but isn't gory, so squeemish people can enjoy the film without throwing up on everyone.
The movie is what it is - an entertaining cinematic romp - and doesn't pretend to be otherwise.
Angelina Jolie plays her usual sexy action vixen, as previously seen in Mr & Mrs Smith, and Tomb Raider, whilst Morgan Freeman says "f*ck" quite a lot. It's refreshing to see Freeman play a bit of a badass, but it's time that Jolie considers doing something out of her usual comfort zone - like maybe starring in a comedy with Will Ferrell or Owen Wilson.
So yeah, a great way to spend 2 hours, you won't leave the theatre feeling profoundly moved, but it should provide you with some great entertainment.
I applied for another Telkom phone line about 6 weeks ago now and, despite being told that it would take 21 working days at most, I am still waiting.
Waiting like a disconsolate kid with divorced parents, who patiently sits outside in the rain, waiting for his dad to come and fetch him for a weekend like he promised. Except the dad has forgotten again, and is banging his young P.A with the cute mole on her lip instead.
Seriously, how can it take so long for a seemingly easy process? Are you deliberately f*cking with me, Telkom?
Why can't you tell me how long it will take? Hearing that "it will be set up as soon as possible, but we're not sure when" does not inspire me with any confidence.
When am I getting my phone line? When am I getting my phone line? When am I getting my phone line?
Many people ask me how it is that I'm always so calm, so laid back, why I'm never really stressed out.
Am I a student of yoga? Do I smoke copious amounts of weed? No. The truth is I'm just lazy. It's an art that I've learnt to master over the years and today I thought I'd share some of my tips with you, as it's Friday and I don't feel like writing about anything else. (Irony?)
Forget all that shit about "7 Habits of Highly Effective People / Teens / Blah Blah Blah".
That's all a bunch of airy fairy psycho babble written by people who want your money. My tips are brilliant, practical and free - and they work phenomenally well.
#1: Perspiration is for pussies.
This is a rule I strictly adhere to. Contrary to what many people say, sweating is extremely bad for you. I try to avoid this as much as possible. Whenever I feel a sweat coming on, I immediately stop what I'm doing, stumble over to the couch and plop down to read a lifestyle magazine instead. No one has ever died from reading a lifestyle magazine. People have died from sweating though, and I've never really been that keen on dying. Avoid.
#2: Hear No Evil.
People tend to have an annoying habit of asking you to do things, from drying the dishes to giving a sensual back rub. To avoid this, simply pretend you cannot hear them. They will get pretty angry at first, and may even shout and scream at you. It's important that you don't waver though, and continue to ignore them. Eventually they will give up and will never ask you to do anything ever again. You're welcome.
#3: Narcolepsy. A Gift From The Gods. Relating to Point 2, some people are surprisingly resilient, and may not be too phased by you pretending not to hear them. A popular tactic of theirs would be to jump in front of you, ensuring you cannot ignore them, or they may even physically grab hold of you. "Listen to me when I'm speaking to you," they may say, as they shake you continuously in an aggressive manner. If this happens, it's important that you DO NOT panic and do anything silly, like agreeing to do what they ask. The trick here then, is to simply go limp and collapse on the ground. This will confuse them initially and you may find that they start shouting again (see previous point). Again, stay calm, play the possum, and DO NOT move from the ground. Don't forget to breathe though, you're not dead - you've just fallen asleep. Eventually they will leave and you will find that they will also never ask you to do anything again.
#4: Never Commit To Anything
One of the biggest mistakes someone can make is when they commit to something. "I will have it ready by lunchtime" or "Sure, will see you on Friday night then". By doing this, you are effectively digging a hole for yourself, as you have now created a level of expectation. This can't be stressed enough - do NOT create a level of expectation. Do NOT commit to anything, always be as vague as possible. ie: "Yeah, I will probably have to look into that." or "Thanks for the night, we should probably do this again sometime."
#5: Mediocrity Has It's Perks
I don't know why everyone looks down on mediocre work. Mediocrity is amazing, you should thrive on it. Whenever you have to do something for someone, do your best to do the shittiest job imaginable, which ensures that you will never get asked to do something again.
#6: A Personal Assistant
This is a vital component in a life of laziness. "An assistant? Mmmm, that sounds expensive" I hear you complaining. Not at all. My assistant is a guy from Zimbabwe, Ignacious, who I found rummaging through my rubbish one morning. For about 10 million Zimbabwean dollars a day (+ - two South African rarnt), plus a tot of whiskey, Ignacious is an enthusiastic employee who carries out all my menial daily tasks (shaving, combing my hair, etc) Sometimes when I don't feel like walking I even let him carry me around. He's great for parties as well and if you toss him a few pennies, he'll bring around some associates and dance in the street for you, letting you and your friends enjoy his antics.
There you go. There was only six steps but coming up with 7 would have been too much of an effort on my part. Besides, my forehead was starting to feel moist so I decided to stop. I hoped I helped some of you today, although in all honesty, I don't really care either way.
Now leave me alone, I'm busy reading a lifestyle magazine.
Another Thursday, another Sports Leader column, the latest piece of journalistic brilliance centres around rugby, and more specifically, why it shouldn't be played in wet weather:
"Watching the Springboks take on New Zealand this past weekend, I was struck by two rather profound thoughts. Firstly, that it still isn’t socially acceptable to drink hard liquor in the morning, judging by the disapproving looks I received from the other patrons at the coffee bar I was frequenting. Secondly — and most importantly — I was left convinced that the time has come for rugby to become a fully fledged summer sport."Read More.
Shaun Takes Cover As The Heavens Try And Piss All Over Him.
What Some People In Cape Town Are Dealing With.
Winter is definitely Mother Nature's bastard love child, the annoying brat you don't really like, but you kind of feel guilty about knocking up his mom and not making an honest woman out of her, so you allow the kid to act like an arsehole and cause shit.
It's July again, and just like last year, Winter is being a complete arsehole and causing shit again, as these pics clearly show.
Basic Delivery: This probably wasn't the free running water the residents living here had in mind. This is actually a two-story house, showing you just how bad the flooding has become.
Amphibious Vehicles: There is nothing a vehicle owner loves more, than driving his car through 15 inches of water. They love it, and their car's certainly love it too.
Seafront Property: Residents decide to whip out the trusty fishing boat, as buying bread at the local corner shop suddenly seemed like a bit of a mission.
Optical Illusion: This isn't a vlei or a lake, it's actually an open field. The little air bubbles you see on the right is the football team who were still trying to play soccer there, as it was the cup final, and they couldn't really reschedule. You may be interested to know that the home team eventually won on penalties.
Shark Warning: The water levels of course meant that shark attacks would be on the increase, so everyone decided to stay indoors.
Seriously, if you're feeling cold under your three blankets with the heater on, think how shit some other Capetonians are feeling right about now. At last count, there were 16 000 people who were displaced by the weather, so let's all be decent about it and give away some of our blankets.
Pick n Pay are usually pretty jacked up when it comes to this sort of thing, so if you see a large box at your local store, you'll know what to do.
Who Like Taking Pics OF Themselves In Their Undies.
You know what they say, girls will be girls. Especially when they are completely ignoring the ugly one, who will probably have to drive them around later and sit quietly in the front seat while they give out to the cute guy they met at Tiger Tiger.
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.
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