Friday Ramble 09/12/2005

Good Morrow Genteel Folk,

Eish, it’s been so long, I’ve forgotten how to do this.

Shot to Smythers for guesting and keeping true to the spirit of the ramble. I have a couple of replies and additions to make.

I have to tell you that although Knappy may have laughed at my little tumble into the cesspool (as would I, were the roles reversed), I have to be honest, that one hurt in the morning. The worst thing was, I bloody saw myself doing it in slow motion – my body just wouldn’t react to what I was trying to tell it to do.

What I loved best about the Pinkies Party was that I got to wear a pink shirt and not hate myself for it - that and the ‘drink as much SAB product as will fit into that little beer keg of yours’. I am pretty in pink. I even had the most awesome pink floppy hat that I lost at some stage. Maybe it was the fashion gods smiling on me, because I loved it so much that it was about to become permanently affixed to my head. It’s probably something I picked up at Rhodes - making yourself look sif is considered an art there. You may not get any, but hey, the Boyos dig you for it.

I consider any night where I walk into the house the next morning and the Old Man stares at me for a few seconds before shaking his head quietly and saying “…good…morning…you…obviously…had…fun…” a major success. I know secretly he is proud in the knowledge that even though he has given me a first class education, I can still alter my mind to that of a two year old at will.

Had a little look see at thunda.com and as usual being mates with one of the photographers has its drawbacks – like he takes photos of you. I am undeniably handsome though. I have to credit where credit is due, Wareek has mastered the fine art of taking photos of girls with big boobs. And not getting any of their face in the frame. Nice one.

One more thing about The Pinkies Party was Knappy had his first fan garnered through this site: “Knappy?! You’re Fat Red!” Words can’t express how awesome that is. Keep spreading the news of the red goodness people. Incidentally, in my absence the hit counter seems to have broken well through the 100 mark. I touched myself. But I often do that, so don’t read too much into it.

I had a great time down in Amanzam with the some of the Boyos with whom I haven’t jammed in far too long. You know how it is when you check people for a couple of hours at a time and it’s[1] good enough to catch up on what they are up to but if you spend a week with them you remember their little idiosyncrasies.

Like how Robbie is a regular Don Juan. The man has an ability to suck girls in with random crap that comes out his mouth the likes of which I have never seen anywhere else. I asked him once what the hell he says to these girls and his response was “you know a lot have people have asked me that, but to be honest I can’t tell you – I just sort of black out”. Dude, I often black out too, but it never seems to end with a girl on top of me; just bouncers, police and substances miscellaneous.

The conundrum of the weekend posed by my man Kluyton: If you are in a Land Rover and you park 20 metres away from a lion that is sleeping, managed to creep up on it without it waking and then whacked it in the nuts with your hand – would you be able to beat it back to the Landie?
The argument raged all week and there was still no consensus reached.

On the first night we went to check out the local pub and the usual inconsequential rubbish was the topic of conversation. While much merriment abounded, Kluytsie was however, unusually quiet. As someone who has had his fair share of nights out with the gentleman in question, I knew this was not a good sign. Beware the Ides of Kluyton, or something like that. Just as we were about to leave, Kluytsie said quietly, “Just hold on, I’ve got to be sick”. What followed is something that will take all my powers of descriptive writing to even half do justice.
He grabbed the nearest pint glass and proceeded to perform the most controlled piece of vomiting I have ever had the pleasure of witnessing. Like the true accountant that he is, it was piecemeal. He was like an ice-cream machine slowly producing a blob at a time. It just came out at a nice slow, steady pace, blob, by blob, by blob. He even had the control to bite off the still hanging pieces of spaghetti after each blob. I was upwind so it was really something magnificent to behold. He was genuinely perplexed when the waiter was pissed off with him for handing him two draught glasses full of recycled spaghetti bolognaise. “But I didn’t get any on the table or the floor! Come, give them to me, I’ll rinse them out! What’s the problem?!” I’m still not sure why I was the only one on the floor in tears. It was the single funniest thing I witnessed all week.

Another thing I found out during the week was that only Rhodes kids seem to understand the concept of the game Gay Chicken. You know when you and a mate start by touching each other on the knee or something and the first person to get freaked out and back down, loses. They didn’t get it – I thought Commie Bastard was going to beat the piss out of me at one point – which is obviously like red rag to a bull when I’ve been slowly sipping flavoured sparkling water since breakfast. Word to the wise, never play this game with Sheep – that man is a master of this game and you will end up with a tongue down your throat and that way no one wins, do they? Also, maybe not Hobbo, but that’s just because he is a bit dubious - actually, you know what, just avoid people from Lumagandhi Agricultural College in general.

Man it’s a small world – I was flicking through some old photos on my camera and Commie Bastard said, “Hey, isn’t that Wayne Stewart?” Once I had worked out that ‘Wayne Stewart’ is actually Reg, I replied “yes, I once had a dream where I woke up naked next to him”…

Moving very swiftly along…

Unfortunately I had to extract myself from the holiday a couple of days early due to the unforeseen circumstance of waking up thinking my kidneys were going to explode and the associated self-loathing. The things I will do to myself so that people will remember my name. On the brighter side of things, it’s the first trip I’ve had down to the South Coast where the medical aid didn’t come into play. Obviously I am getting more mature - or maybe the scar tissue has just formed a protective layer.

Coming home from work on Tuesday the brakes on my beautiful piece of German engineering failed. Ya - that was fun; bumper to bumper traffic on the N2 and no brakes. I felt just like a taxi. Fortunately a whole day’s work had rendered my brain sufficiently fried for me to be too useless to panic.

Got the new Darkness album and what a goodie. There is even a song about a hazel-eyed lass from bonny Scotland, complete with bagpipes. I really do love a bit of old school rock opera; men in tights with long hair and hairy chests singing at high pitch with squealing guitars – what could be better.

Heavy metal and mullets is how we were raised,
Maiden and Priest were the gods that we praised.

Speaking of mullets: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mullet_%28haircut%29
It comes complete with a list of celebrities who have, at one time or another sported a mullet. And yes, Tony Blair is in there. What does disturb me though is this:
Ashton Kutcher – Occasionally has had one
Paul McCartney – Rock musician, wore a mullet in the early and mid-70s, and again in the late 1980s
I’m not entirely sure I’m comfortable in a society that finds Ashton Kutcher a more recognizable figure than Sir Paul.

“Well, er, yes Mr. Anchovy, but you see your report here says that you are an
extremely dull person. You see, our experts describe you as an appallingly dull
fellow, unimaginative, timid, lacking in initiative, spineless, easily
dominated, no sense of humour, tedious company and irrepressibly drab and awful.
And whereas in most professions these would be considerable drawbacks, in
chartered accountancy, they're a positive boon." – Monty Python - the Vocational
Guidance Counsellor Sketch

Khetha Bonga Mazibook, a very happy birthday to thee. May all your dreams come true – except the one about Webster. That one is just siff.

Ok people. Sorry that was a very bad ramble but the Ukrainian proprietor of the pub I was at last night was pure evil. At one point I said to Rum, “man, I must be hammered because this song sounds like it’s in Russian”. Turns out that Rum had just got the lady to play some TATU. In Russian. My boy, no more vodka shots for you, you become an evil, evil man.

Also, does someone have my camera or the remnants of my dignity?

And I’m done.
Love you all, thank you for making yesterday fun.

And please, please, please sms ‘hi5 indecent obsession kiss me’ as many times as you can to 33345 and spread the word. This is not a joke. This is serious. Damn the man.

Love, kisses, globules of, ahem, custard,
Jamo

Ps Sorry this is such a bad ramble, I must have lost my touch.

[1] Word just underlined ‘it’s’ as a grammatical error and suggested ‘it are’ – I must have accidentally changed the language setting to English (Boksburg).