Friday Ramble 27/01/2006

Good Moaning

Last Friday was 5th Leg just for a change. The score is Crazy Russian Lady 8 – 0 Us. I somehow ended up with a bottle of wine at 6 in the morning playing Playstation by myself. I’m not proud of it, but hey. A phonecall from my Old Man woke me about an hour after I got to sleep, telling me I needed to be at home to let some artisan or other into the house. I was a mess. There I sat at 8 in the morning, maimed out of my head, replying to an email of Knappy’s that he had sent at 5 that morning because he had been working. Utter madness.

Cause the last time I looked in the dictionary, my name is Ron Burgundy.

Saturday was madness. Woke from my slumber at about 3. Decided a potjie was in order at about 4 and messaged the Gump character. He maessaged back in the affirmative about 20 seconds later and then two hours later there were about 15 dudes at my house carrying on. Beer was consumed. Wine was consumed. Other ‘things’ were consumed. Potjie was consumed. It was magnificent. Amongst other things we ended up arguing about when Freddie Mercury died and whether or not he had sung ‘Barcelona’ at the ’92 Olympics. Like the true nerds that we are, it was Googled and he died in ’91 and obviously didn’t sing at said Olympics (which, just for the record, is what I said). Then I got this:

Goodness gracious. 3 o clock in the morning and I find myself being one of two
white guys in a strip club in swaziland. Something to write home
about.

Sender:
Knaps Swazi
+2686030268

Message
centre:
+2686011033

Sent:
22-Jan-2006 02:48:04

What he doesn’t mention is that there was actually no one else in the club at all and he was watching an aged white guy with no teeth, viragoes veins and hoary pubic hair do a strip tease to Eiffel 65’s ‘Blue’. He actually wrote a very amusing email about it and I took the liberty of posting it below. Nice one Knaps. By the way, where is Swaziland? My uncle lives in Kenya, have you met him?

Braised fetus with peas, lettuce and spring onions

You can use whole fetuses in this recipe, but I prefer to remove the bottom of each carcass with a knife or a pair of scissors to open them out like a book. The cooking time I have given is sufficient, but if you like your meat pink then feel free to lessen it.

Serves 4
4 fetuses
salt and freshly ground black pepper
olive oil
1 bunch of spring onions, stalks chopped and bulbs left whole
1 clove of garlic, peeled and finely chopped
3 good knobs of butter
1 heaped tablespoon flour
1 kg peas, fresh or frozen
2 cos lettuces, quartered
1.1 litres chicken or vegetable stock

Preheat the oven to 220˚ C and get a high-sided casserole pan or roasting tray hot on the hob. Season the fetuses, then place them skin side down in the hot pan with a little olive oil until lightly golden. Remove from the pan and fry the chopped spring onion stalks and garlic for 1 minute until slightly softened. Add your knobs of butter and the flour. Turn down the heat and cook for a further 3 minutes without colouring. Add your peas, spring onion bulbs and enough stock to cover, then place the fetuses on top, skin side up. Cook in the preheated oven for 20 minutes. Remove from the oven and allow to sit for 5 minutes before serving.

Wednesday evening saw a bit of a pub quiz challenge: Girls vs Boys. We came out to a flyer, but then the section on Opera strolled in. Come now; 4 dudes and 5 questions on Opera. We fell from a mighty 4th place to a miserable 24th in one swift round. I still have my doubts as to whether it is fair to include opera in the Art and Literature section; screeching chicks in steel push-up bras does not constitute art in my book.

Opera is when a guy gets stabbed in the back and instead of bleeding he
sings.
Ed. Gardner
Duffy’s Tavern

We also struggled a bit because Hobbo wasn’t there to know the theme tune from An Officer and a Gentleman. No matter what you might think – I love losing, especially to girls.
Actually Smythers and The Impoverished Teacher to Be had a bet riding that the loser had to sort out the Valentines Day plans; so Smythers, being the hopeless romantic that he is, persuaded us to throw it so that he could do the honours of organising. How could we refuse him?

Rumbone, I finally got round to seeing Little Britain. I am the only gay in the village.

Shot to my man Mik for the photos of Mrs Bredin. I for one had a quiet moment by myself in the tool shed. Unfortunately had some issues hosting them, but they will be up next week, I promise!

Speaking of that Mrs. Bredin guy – he really, truly never ceases to amaze me at what a dirty old man he is. I hadn’t seen the guy for about a month and the first thing he does when I saw him was whip out his cellphone and show me pictures of his (now ex) girlfriend in various stages of undress. I, of course protested profusely, but in order to preserve a friendship had a perfunctory glance. Ripper son. But he still wouldn’t take my bet of a buck for every minute he spaded the badly aging bar-whore. It would have been something to tell your kids my guy.

In Con Air, the crazy guy says something along the lines of: Define irony – a bunch of idiots on an aircraft singing a song by a group that died in an plane crash.

Something you probably didn’t know: ‘Yankee Doodle’ is sung to the tune of an old English song ‘Kitty Fisher’s Locket’. Kitty Fisher was a famous whore. And now Uncle Sam is the most famous whore of them all. Warm mug of irony anyone?

Ambrose Bierce’s classic The Devil's Dictionary. If you are working, print it out at the company’s expense; if you are not, print it out at the folks expense. Then stick it atop the bog because it makes great…ahem…break-time reading.


Handsome Rob’s favourite mood killer Goodbye My Lover seems to be the latest James Blunt single. I can just see the hundreds of 16 year old girls weeping into their diaries right now. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not bad, but where have all the good break-up songs gone. The ones that resound with the bitterness of a broken heart. Like Bob Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right”.

It ain't no use in calling out my name, gal

Like you never done before

It ain't no use in calling out my name, gal

I can't hear you any more

I'm a-thinking and a-wond'rin' walking down the road

I once loved a woman, a child I'm told

I give her my heart but she wanted my soul

Don't think twice, it's all right.

So long honey, babe

Where I'm bound, I can't tell

Goodbye's too good a word, babe

So I'll just say fare thee well

I ain't saying you treated me unkind

You could have done better but I don't mind

You just kinda wasted my precious time

But don't think twice, it's all right.

Sarcasm like that you just can’t beat. Another of my best is the Travelling Wilbury’s ‘Congratulations’ (of which coincidentally Dylan was a member)

Congratulations for breaking my heart
Congratulations for tearing it all apart

I dig it.

Senator, welcome to our place. Is there anything of yours we can keep as a
memento of this visit?
Take California.

Honourable mention in the next Ramble to the person who can tell me Artist and Album from whence that comes.

I am really enjoying Bob Sinclair’s “Love Generation”. My sister and I on the trip back from the coast heard it on the radio and were whistling merrily away to it and the DJ said “bet I just caught you whistling to that”. It is just one of those really happy songs. Right up there with The Boo Radleys’ “Wake Up” and U2’s “Beautiful Day” for songs just completely happy in their simplicity. I’m a sucker for that.

One never realises the vulgarity of human beings so acutely as when listening to
the mindless bawling of popular songs.
John Sullivan
But for the Grace
of God

Does anyone else get irrationally annoyed when they hear the sound of Tony Leon’s voice? I hate local election time because I have to hear his whiny little nasal irritating voice on the radio every 30 seconds. Mate, when you adopt a policy that is more meaningful than simply nagging about what the ANC is or isn’t doing then maybe I’ll see a reason to vote. Until then, cease burdening my ears you infuriating mosquito turd.
Can you imagine being at school with him? “Teacher, teacher look what Johnny is doing”. He must have spent the greater part of his high school career hanging from the change-room hooks by his jocks. Insufferable little twerp.
Squirrel’s Way (the one in Cape Town where Commie Bastard, Don Rob, etc live) can claim the honour of having had one of their digs parties shut down by that little prag.

As a matter of fact I swallowed one of these about two hours ago, and the
explanation is that it is in fact, my hand. Everything, it seemed, was all
right.

Same album, different song. Go.

Hands up all those who think ‘Prison Break’ is going to become the next 24 for un-missable Tuesday night TV viewing.

So, our cricket sucks and our football really sucks. Our rugby is the only thing saving us face at the moment. Maybe the Nats were right in asserting the Crunchies the master race after all. Not the Porras; sorry Boarders.

Word up to Lau for her birthday yesterday. You still look great for a middle-aged woman my girl.

The Furniture Guy has managed to hook up some tickets to be in the studio audience for Corne and Twakkie’s ‘Most Amazing Show’ so best look out for that this Tuesday. I’m not sure when this particular episode will be aired though.

Wicked cool. Love the weekend; Be the weekend.

Love, kisses and braised feti.
Jamo.

A Tall Tale

Introduction:That was probably one of the most different weekends that I have everhad in the 23 years, 2 months and 6 days of my humble existence. Itstarted by watching Kill Bill 2 on Friday night, the brilliant secondhalf of an excellent film. That in itself (watching Kill Bill) doesnot seem strange, other than the fact that it was the first time thatI have watched a movie on a Friday night in a very very long time.Kill Bill was merely a means to an end, and that end was to stayawake. You see, I had to be at the Bank at midnight, and I felt thatif I did have some sleep, I would feel terrible when I had to wake upand trek up the escarpment to Mbabane from the lovely Ezulwini Valley.So I did not sleep, and trekked up the escarpment to Mbabane from thelovely Ezulwini Valley feeling as fresh a sunflower at dawn.Chapter 1:I arrived at the Swaziland Standard Bank Head Offices in Mbabane ataround midnight. The air outside was crisp, and it generally tends tobe at the witching hour. The implementation had already begun, and wasgoing well. I was required to assist, and assistance is what Iprovided. I got really tired at around 3 am and had a 5 minute catnap,only to awake and feel like absolute rubbish. This is the boring partof the story, so I will hurry along: just know that I was tired, andleft the Bank at 6:30 in the morning, went and had some breakfast atthe hotel, and promptly fell asleep at 7:21:53 am, after putting myhead on my pillow at 7:21:52 am.Chapter 2:I awoke at 11:30 am, feeling as fresh as a sunflower at dusk. I washungry. So I ate. And I had a draught. And it was good. In fact, itwas really nice, we sat in the sun at the Royal Swazi Spa and had adelightful lunch. Colonial best describes the atmosphere and settingsthat one finds oneself in at the Royal Swazi Sun and Spa. It really isa nice hotel, I wish that I had stayed there. Nonetheless, the Lugogo
place; however I am now sick of the place, a feeling that has beenaroused from staying in the hotel for too long. But I digress. So theafternoon was spent in the sun, drinking Pineapple Ferry\'s, TomCollins\' and Gin Fizz\'s. A healthy start, I might add. The afternoonslowly filtered into evening, and we went for dinner at a nicerestaurant, where I proceeded to have the best seafood curry I haveever had. Now, I found this odd, Swaziland being a landlocked countryand all. I had quite a few gin and tonics, and some red wine, allwashed down with an Irish coffee. And so dinner came to a close.Chapter 3:Now this is when the interesting part began. Everyone thought that theevening was drawing to a close, but, as so often happens, weunexpectedly blinked and found ourselves in the hotel\'s bar. And whenone is in a bar one must do what patrons do: drink. So I did. Moregin. Double shots. Which led us to deciding that we needed toexperience Swaziland\'s notorious nightlife: and promptly headed off tothe Why Not Disco. Now I must fill you in on what we had heard aboutthe Why Not, so that you know what I knew before I went in. You see,the Why Not is infamous for its ladies, its pole fraternising ladies.We were assured by the doorman (who as you will see turned out to be aliar) that there was no \'funny business\' in the \'outer\' circle, the\'funny business\' happened in the \'inner\' circle. You see, we had someladies with us, and they did not care to be privy to such going-ons ofsuch an establishment (I\'ll have you know, that neither did I for thatmatter. A lovely Ugandan man by the name of Edgar wanted to find some\'lady company\', hence the initial drift towards the Why Not in thefirst place).There was no-one on the dance floor. In fact, there was no-one in the\'outer\' circle. So we drank some more, and danced. Ripped it up. It",1]
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Sun (which means the skinning of cattle in SiSwati) is not a badplace; however I am now sick of the place, a feeling that has beenaroused from staying in the hotel for too long. But I digress. So theafternoon was spent in the sun, drinking Pineapple Ferry's, TomCollins' and Gin Fizz's. A healthy start, I might add. The afternoonslowly filtered into evening, and we went for dinner at a nicerestaurant, where I proceeded to have the best seafood curry I haveever had. Now, I found this odd, Swaziland being a landlocked countryand all. I had quite a few gin and tonics, and some red wine, allwashed down with an Irish coffee. And so dinner came to a close.Chapter 3:Now this is when the interesting part began. Everyone thought that theevening was drawing to a close, but, as so often happens, weunexpectedly blinked and found ourselves in the hotel's bar. And whenone is in a bar one must do what patrons do: drink. So I did. Moregin. Double shots. Which led us to deciding that we needed toexperience Swaziland's notorious nightlife: and promptly headed off tothe Why Not Disco. Now I must fill you in on what we had heard aboutthe Why Not, so that you know what I knew before I went in. You see,the Why Not is infamous for its ladies, its pole fraternising ladies.We were assured by the doorman (who as you will see turned out to be aliar) that there was no 'funny business' in the 'outer' circle, the'funny business' happened in the 'inner' circle. You see, we had someladies with us, and they did not care to be privy to such going-ons ofsuch an establishment (I'll have you know, that neither did I for thatmatter. A lovely Ugandan man by the name of Edgar wanted to find some'lady company', hence the initial drift towards the Why Not in thefirst place).There was no-one on the dance floor. In fact, there was no-one in the'outer' circle. So we drank some more, and danced. Ripped it up. It
the only occupants of the dance floor, but the cages above the stagesbecame resident to dancing ladies. Interesting. Since Parishka (alovely girl) comes from a conservative Indian family in Durban. Shehad wide-eyes. And so we danced like that until about 2:30 am Sundaymorning, when the girls said enough, the madness must end! Now, I havenever been one to know when to stop, and I was not about to start inSwaziland. So, Brian and I decided to stay and drink some more, alongwith two Ugandan men, and a dear Tanzanian lady. And so we migratedinto the \'inner\' circle.Chapter 4:Two white boys in a strip club in Swaziland. I have always believedthat life is about experiences that you will never forget. This is oneof them. I laughed so hard, it really was amusing. Jan babe, I did notat any one point feel any arousal whatsoever. It was all hellavufunny, a good laugh. I had by now moved onto the whiskeys, somethingthat many of you will know that I move onto later on in the evening.So, there I was, enjoying the whiskey, but not much else. Not muchelse can be said, because it was just one of those times when you hadto be there. We left at 4 am, and I cleverly/stupidly decided to phoneJan: the silly girl answered. What I said to her, only she can reallysay, but I know that I was drunk. Enough said.Chapter 5:It was hot. The air was thick, and the sheets stuck to my body becauseof a thin layer of sweat. The phone was ringing. As I tenderly movedto answer it, a wave of nausea washed over my body. Rob was on theother end, telling me to be ready in an hour to go play golf. Fine, Isaid, see you then. Goodness. I thought I was going to die. We hadspoken about golf the day before, before I had gone to Why Not. Ireally wanted to play golf, I had gone for a run around the golf",1]
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was intense, have not danced like that in about 8 years. We remainedthe only occupants of the dance floor, but the cages above the stagesbecame resident to dancing ladies. Interesting. Since Parishka (alovely girl) comes from a conservative Indian family in Durban. Shehad wide-eyes. And so we danced like that until about 2:30 am Sundaymorning, when the girls said enough, the madness must end! Now, I havenever been one to know when to stop, and I was not about to start inSwaziland. So, Brian and I decided to stay and drink some more, alongwith two Ugandan men, and a dear Tanzanian lady. And so we migratedinto the 'inner' circle.Chapter 4:Two white boys in a strip club in Swaziland. I have always believedthat life is about experiences that you will never forget. This is oneof them. I laughed so hard, it really was amusing. Jan babe, I did notat any one point feel any arousal whatsoever. It was all hellavufunny, a good laugh. I had by now moved onto the whiskeys, somethingthat many of you will know that I move onto later on in the evening.So, there I was, enjoying the whiskey, but not much else. Not muchelse can be said, because it was just one of those times when you hadto be there. We left at 4 am, and I cleverly/stupidly decided to phoneJan: the silly girl answered. What I said to her, only she can reallysay, but I know that I was drunk. Enough said.Chapter 5:It was hot. The air was thick, and the sheets stuck to my body becauseof a thin layer of sweat. The phone was ringing. As I tenderly movedto answer it, a wave of nausea washed over my body. Rob was on theother end, telling me to be ready in an hour to go play golf. Fine, Isaid, see you then. Goodness. I thought I was going to die. We hadspoken about golf the day before, before I had gone to Why Not. Ireally wanted to play golf, I had gone for a run around the golf
played a really nice course before as well, so I had to go. And thisis what I told myself. So I very slowly and gingerly pulled myselftogether. I pumped the aircon, had a cold shower, and suffered througha bout of hiccups, which almost turned into an episode of a Knaptonspecial. But I held on.We teed off at midday, and it was hot. And I was hanging. And my firstshot was embarrassing. Right in front of the clubhouse. Didn\'t make itto the ladies tee. Oh well I thought, at least I got that out of mysystem. Off the second tee, there was an minnie valley right in frontof tee off. As Jamo and Gump know, I don\'t do well with obstacles infront of me. And I did not do well this time either. Ball number 1 of6 lost. The Royal Swazi Golf Course is awesome. The best course I haveever played. The course snakes along the foot of the mountain, theLugogo mountain. Lots of up and down holes, and it had been raininglots, so the grass and trees were all very green. I will have youknow, that other than those two really bad moments, I played the bestgolf I have ever played. You should be jealous Gump, I was justthinking about how much you would have enjoyed playing this course thewhole 18 holes. I sure did. My best moment in golf so far. I will alsohave you know that by the time the 10th hole came along, I was hitting180m-200m drives off the tee with a driver. I was hitting the ball thesweetest that I have ever done, and it felt great. Really great.In Closing:I am the happiest man in the world that I pulled myself towards myselfand went to go play 18 holes of golf on a lovely course yesterday. Thebest part of it all was coming back to the hotel at 5:30 pm, and Brianhad only just got out of bed. Man, it felt good to not pull a Knapton.See you all on Friday.",0]
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course earlier on in the week and it is really beautiful. I had neverplayed a really nice course before as well, so I had to go. And thisis what I told myself. So I very slowly and gingerly pulled myselftogether. I pumped the aircon, had a cold shower, and suffered througha bout of hiccups, which almost turned into an episode of a Knaptonspecial. But I held on.We teed off at midday, and it was hot. And I was hanging. And my firstshot was embarrassing. Right in front of the clubhouse. Didn't make itto the ladies tee. Oh well I thought, at least I got that out of mysystem. Off the second tee, there was an minnie valley right in frontof tee off. As Jamo and Gump know, I don't do well with obstacles infront of me. And I did not do well this time either. Ball number 1 of6 lost. The Royal Swazi Golf Course is awesome. The best course I haveever played. The course snakes along the foot of the mountain, theLugogo mountain. Lots of up and down holes, and it had been raininglots, so the grass and trees were all very green. I will have youknow, that other than those two really bad moments, I played the bestgolf I have ever played. You should be jealous Gump, I was justthinking about how much you would have enjoyed playing this course thewhole 18 holes. I sure did. My best moment in golf so far. I will alsohave you know that by the time the 10th hole came along, I was hitting180m-200m drives off the tee with a driver. I was hitting the ball thesweetest that I have ever done, and it felt great. Really great.In Closing:I am the happiest man in the world that I pulled myself towards myselfand went to go play 18 holes of golf on a lovely course yesterday. Thebest part of it all was coming back to the hotel at 5:30 pm, and Brianhad only just got out of bed. Man, it felt good to not pull a Knapton.See you all on Friday.

Friday Ramble 20/01/2006

Good morrow gentle folk of Ramble Land.

I have decided to become a celibate homosexual; it’s not going to require as much of a lifestyle change as you might imagine.



It never ceases to amaze me how music can transport me back through time. It invokes memories better than a photograph. As I write this I am listening to Skid Row. Std 5. Angst-ridden teenage-hood. They had long hair. They swore. The drummer had a chain from his nose-ring to his ear-ring.

You’re standing too close, what the fuck’s with you?
You ain’t my old lady
and you ain’t a tattoo.
No need to wimper, no need to shout.
This party’s
over, so get the fuck out.
Get the fuck out.

Sebastian Bach, the lead singer, is now the older guy in the Chinese chick’s band in Gilmore Girls. The incessant marching of time, man.

I am in fact a big (actually not even that big) baby. Got kicked on the ankle playing football. Cried like a girl. Walked around on crutches for as long as it took for me to realise that I do not possess the required co-ordination. But I did have a semi-legitimate excuse for lying around on the couch all day. I watched Oprah and Sense and Sensibility and cried like the girl that I am.

The Fifth Leg is the greatest place in the whole of Johannesburg. That crazy Ukranian lady is going to kill me one day. She digs us because we are such “fuckink polite guys”. Many apologies to Lol for making her stay for too many. Blame it on Gump. And the crazy Ukranian. One minute, I was there for a quiet drink with a friend I haven’t seen in far too long, the next I was doing tequila slammers with the proprietors son. Gump and I worked out that the Vodka they always force down our throats (chased by a gherkin for some reason known only to those from the Soviet Union) isn’t actually as great as we had previously thought. It’s just that we were slightly less maimed than usual and still had partial use of our taste-buds. I prefer to stick to the chimera that it is triple distilled in Siberia from whence it is dragged on the back of a yak to the coast and shipped on an old nuclear class sub; and not sold for R55.99 at Makro.

Kluytsie is apparently on this very day writing his final pilots exam so that he can join the airlines. I can remember him writing various flying exams since we were about 17 so I think he might just be a little excited and tonight will hopefully be brutal.

Listening to Skid Row earlier has compelled me to revisit all my old school albums. Have been through Anthrax and have moved onto Battery 9. Does anyone remember Battery 9? That Afrikaans industrial band from the mid 90s that used to use drills and sheet metal and crap to make music. I know Labs and Gump will remember them. In fact I think Labs actually gave me the CD. It’s all your fault my mom was convinced I was on drugs my guy.

Ek blaas hom
Ek blaas hom
Ek blaas hom, weer…

Deep. Think about it.

Speaking of guy, for all those that were unaware – Corne and Twakkie have their very own show on SABC 2 on Tuesdays at 10. Catch it – this week, they interviewed everybody’s favourite radio icon Mr. Barney Simon. M-Net are competing with their very own local content Binnelanders. Poignant local drama at it’s channel changing best.

Something you probably didn’t know:
cleavage n. Way in which mineral, party, opinion, etc., tends to split.
Now you know.

Cold hard bitch
Just a kiss on the lips
And I was on my knees
I’m
waiting, give me
Cold hard bitch,
She was shakin’ her hips
That’s all
that I need

Ramble has broken the 200 visits mark. Just touching myself quickly.

What the hell is that..?

My old man’s new girlfriend is one them what snorts at the end of her laugh. Ha ha ha ngah. How do I stop myself laughing at her? I come from a school of friends with about as much compassion as Hitler after just stubbing his toe. Sometimes I just have to pretend I’m laughing with her. And then she says things like “but sea-level in Cape Town is higher than in Durban”. Someone hand me a 4 iron. My Godfather and I just sat there with mouths agape, not quite knowing how to react; neither of us is notorious for our patience with people when they say stupid things. Ha ha ha ngah. Then again, maybe I’m just bummed cause my old man at 65 has a more active, ahem, life than I. I’ve decided I’m going to go to Tibet to become a monk. Write that down, Timothy Andrew Kluyts.

Mike, a handsome dude, walked into a sports bar around 9:58 PM. He sat down next
to this blonde at the bar and stared up at the TV. The 10:00 news was on. The
news crew was covering a story of a man on a ledge of a large building preparing
to jump.The blonde looked at Mike and said, "Do you think he'll jump?"Mike says,
"You know, I bet he will jump."The blonde replied, "Well, I bet he won't."Mike
placed $20 on the bar and said, "You're on!" Just as the blonde placed her money
on the bar, the guy did a swan-dive off of the building, falling to his
death.The blonde was very upset and handed her $20 to Mike, saying, "Fair's
fair.Here's your money."Mike replied, "I can't take your money, I saw this
earlier on the 5 o'clock news and knew he would jump."The blonde replies, "I
did, too; but I didn't think he'd do it again."Mike took the money...

Why would I post such a lame joke on this most illustrious of websites? Because it was emailed to me by Chip and I would like you to note the “Mike, a handsome dude” part. Is it in any way relevant to the joke whether or not Mike is handsome? Tell the truth Chip my guy, did you have other things on your mind when you wrote this? Go on, touch Hobbo.

For once Shmoe joined the Work Avoidance Brigade (personally, I have graduated from this club and am now part of the Life Avoidance Brigade) and it turns out he has quite the hand at writing.

I will tell you a scary story. Last night I challenged myself to a trip to the
South for a stay over. Yes you probably thinking idiot, why go there? But it was
necessary and with necessities come compromises (as 5th leg became last night).
Anyway, due to the fact that I was in the southern slums, I left particularly
early - around 5:15 - to escape the thugs that cover the streets. Of course
when I pulled in to 7th heaven (28 Holt street - the Palms) no one was awake. So
I quietly entered the dark house hoping to make it to my room with as little
noise left behind as possible when I saw the most horrific scene I have ever
seen. No it wasn't Jamo's puke on the floor, or Hobbo standing in the doorway.
Not even a spider, but as I walked up the passage I noticed a door to one of the
rooms open. Uncontrollably, and to my dismay, I looked left and saw it, THERE -
basically erupting in its own mess... Yes you can believe it, yes
it was unmistakable, it was Gumps Crack - putting the worlds
most terrifying sight to shame. I gagged, mock charged, stumbled and almost
- only almost - burst into tears as I was overtaken and scarred by this
unruly - mentally devastating sight.

It was terrible, took 3 hours
to stop trembling.

But I am alright now, managed to pull myself
towards myself and am slowly getting on with my life.

What really
scares me is the thought of having to go to sleep tonight... the nightmares...

A bit of bile has risen to my mouth. There will be a short memorial service this evening at The Palms for Shmoe’s innocence.

I was sent one of those silly type in your name and your perfect job will be revealed things. The results? Christian name – Porn Star. Full name – Brain Surgeon. Ha ha ha ngah. Remarkably accurate.

It was 7 minutes after midnight. The dog was lying on the grass in the middle of
the lawn in front of Mrs Shears’ house. Its eyes were closed. It looked as if it
was running on its side, the way dogs run when they think they are chasing a cat
in a dream. But the dog was not running or asleep. The dog was dead. There was a
garden fork sticking out of the dog.
- Mark Haddon, The Curious Incident of
the Dog in the Night-Time

To me it’s right up there with “Call me Ishmael” and “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” as one of the all time best beginnings to a book. If you haven’t read it, best you do so. If you have, is dog an anagram and metaphor for God? Hmmm.

Incidentally, read the beginning to A Tale of Two Cities. Whoever said Dickens could write a little, wasn’t taking the piss.

Listening to Disturbed now.

No mommy don't do it again, don't do it again,
I'll be a good boy
I'll be a good boy, I promise.
No mommy don't hit me,
OW, why did you have to hit me like that mommy?
Don't do it you're hurting me O-HOW.
Why do you have to be such a bitch.
Why don't you why don't you fuck off and die!
Why can't you just fuck off and die!
Why can't you just leave here and die!
Never stick your hand in my face again, bitch.
FUCK YOU!!!I don't need this shit!
You stupid, sadistic, abusive, fucking whore.
Would you like to see how it feels mommy?
Here it comes get ready to DIE!

O-WA-A-A-A

Ha ha ha ngah. I think someone wasn't breast-fed. There is not a doubt in my mind that at some point in our Rhodes career Knaps and I drank papsak and moshed hard to that in his res room while Merk prayed for our souls next door.
Sing it with me my guy.

You’re one twisted little fuck and now you wanna get psycho with me.

No one can deny we are cut from the same cloth mfana. Admittedly you got the lions share and it got mixed up with your mom’s red lace underwear in the wash. Fuck man, sorry. I actually siffed myself out a little bit there. No one can deny Mrs Knappy is awesome. She even humoured some bullshit argument I was making about something or other on New Year’s when I couldn’t remember from one sentence to the next.

I almost forgot to tell a little bedtime story for the kids. A while ago (at least 6 months, if memory serves) Harties, Paolie, Kluytsie and yours truly went to Billy’s for drink or two. We were just chilling when Paolie (everybody’s favourite Italian Stallion) was sent over a double shot of absinthe (in hindsight, perhaps we should have been wary of women who ply you with hallucinogens). Anyway, my guy duly took it and we ended up sitting at a table with them. Long story short, they were from The East, two were married, one engaged and one single. And the single one wasn’t the one doing all the work, I have to tell you. In general, they looked like a baseball bat to the face might make some improvements but hey, as they say, they were the only one’s talking to us. Paolie, committed the schoolboy error of giving them his phone number. For the past six months he has been making excuses not to see them and they just don’t seem to be taking the hint. Then, he told me the other day that one of them had recently sent him a message saying “I want to have an affair with you”. WHERE THE FUCK DO YOU FIND THESE PEOPLE PAOLIE? Strange as it may seem, this is no isolated incident in the lives of Paolie, Kluytsie and Harties. They all have several variations of the same story to their names.



Saturday night at Colony was great. Lots of old faces not seen for ages. And a lot of pitting. Anyway, Don Rob did something awesome. In his own words “she was probably the ugliest girl I’ve ever been with”. But it gets better. He said that earlier in the evening his brother missioned off and was seen chatting up some bird. Rob said he was talking crap with some of his mates and a girl that they knew but he didn’t joined them. She looked at him a little strangely and then pulled in. Don Rob thought, “oh well, I am Handsome Rob after all” and reciprocated. As she walked away his mates burst out laughing and he realised that she had a butt exactly like his maid’s. Then his brother walked up and Don Rob asked him where his girl was. “You just scored her”, he replied. Ha ha ha ngah. Apparently she got a little confused and thought Rob was his brother. And she looked like a combine harvester from behind. That really is brotherly love for you; it’s like stepping in front of a bullet.



Two thousand, two hundred and fourteen words and not one Knappy joke. Small miracles. The lack of Knappy jokes, not Knappy that is – cause we all know that man is a planet sized miracle himself.

Enjoy the weekend party people. Tonight, I celebrate the miracle that is binge drinking.

Love, kisses and minimal yeast related infections
Jamo.

Edwin the Conqueror by William Brody

The distinctive invigorating smell that warns of a storm permeated our little house. I pulled back a pointless lace curtain that my mother insisted was stylish, and squinted outside. Though it was dusk and very little could be made out with any distinction, I could see a little creature of a man scurry for cover. I recognized his awkward step and somewhat sub human figure.

No one could really remember when he arrived or where he came from. He just arrived one day, paid for a week's stay at the old Royal Hotel in advance, and had been a local ever since. He was very much a non-entity in our small town. He spoke very little: just enough to buy himself a loaf of bread and a carton of milk at Mr. Godot’s Café and greet Molly McVeigh. She was the only person he acknowledged. No one knew why. He just did. As to what he did for a living, this was as much a mystery as the rest of his life. Jack Conroy’s cousin Felicity, who worked at The Royal, said that he often received mail from Nepal and Mr. Godot said that he would occasionally buy large brown envelopes in packs of fifty from him. That was it. No more, no less – that was Edwin Shaw.

The only thing that even kept him in anyone’s memory was perhaps his curious figure. If he stood up to his full height, he could just manage to ride the Ferris wheel at the fair. He hunched over, and though technically not a hunchback, he was certainly not normal. His shoulder blades protruded so far from his back that it seemed he was sprouting wings. His stocky legs, always covered in a pair of long brown pants, bent outward at the knees and made him look very similar to a baboon. He had a strange limp. Whether injury induced or not, no one knew, but he would step forward onto his right foot and then swivel slightly on it so that the step on his left foot he took like a crab. His arms were no less fascinating than the rest of his body. They were in length proportionate to the rest of his body, but it was his forearms that made up the majority of his hairy, knobbled arms. To be frank, the man looked like he was the creator’s feeble attempt at modern art.

It was later that very same week that I entered the Dog & Duck. Several people already inhabited the pub and there were several conversations going on in empty tones. There were infrequent cracks at the two pool tables in the small adjoining room. The stale sounds disappeared under a throaty belch. The reverberating sound emanated from Eric. He sat in the far right corner of the indelicate establishment and proceeded to throw peanut shells at poor old Jim.

Jim was born deaf. When he was six or seven, he had been playing in the street when a large truck, occupied by a fresh delivery from the Dog & Duck, had wildly veered around the corner. Jim didn’t even hear his lumbar vertebrae shatter, much less the truck that caused it. He had lost all the use of his legs, leaving him only partial use of his upper body. The incident had left the poor soul, terribly disturbed and it wasn’t uncommon to witness the poor chap drunk and deranged screaming in his terrible, toneless voice.

As it was on this afternoon, Eric sat, surrounded by empty beer glasses, throwing peanut shells at Jim. Jim in turn sat, face on the table, surrounded by empty beer glasses and peanut shells. It was then that the most extraordinary thing occurred. The comical figure of Edwin emerged from the shadows. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he squeaked. The room’s sickly atmosphere died.

Eric roared. His insane laughter echoed throughout the room, amongst several other unsmiling faces.

The reason he laughed was simple. He was known throughout the town as Eric the Viking. There was no affection in the name. He was an absolute giant of a man who had not a single friend in the entire town. When his temper rose, as it frequently did, a single, swollen vein would appear in the centre of his forehead. The rest of his face would go bright red, accentuated by his blonde hair. His body seemed to swell up as if he was about to burst through his shirt. It must have been through one of these fits that his brain had burst, or moved on to greener pastures, for he was not the most intelligent of the human species. The facts were simple - no one incited Eric the Viking.

This, is why the Dog & Duck stood silent, but for the demented laughter. Everyone stood, frozen, not knowing whether to laugh or evacuate. “Oh yeah…” was about all that Eric’s fantastic wit could muster up, “why not?”

Edwin did not reply - he simply hobbled two paces forward. With his legs, it didn’t do much in the grand scheme of things – it was simply his sign that he was not about to back down. Whether from fury, boredom or exhaustion, Eric ceased his laughter and threw a table (the only object between him and Edwin) out of the way. It sent a few of the occupants of the bar scurrying. One huge step later, and Edwin and Eric stood eye to belt-buckle. Edwin took a pace back and then moved toward Eric again. Surprisingly nimble, Edwin leapt up into the air and with a ferocious squeak, karate-chopped Eric on the neck. Eric, taken totally by surprise, stood motionless. An enormous crack enveloped the still echoing war cry.

Edwin shrieked in agony. He lay on the floor, writhing in amongst the peanut shells. His long forearm was a bloody, mangled mess of bone and flesh.

A single, violently swollen vein appeared on Eric the Viking’s forehead.

Edwin and Jim sit together all the time now. They sit at the same table Jim sat that fateful day. They are always surrounded by empty beer glasses – and peanut shells.

Friday Ramble 13/01/2006

Right, now that that pesky holiday thing is out of the way – back to the slog; well for those with jobs.

First Ramble of the new year and on Friday the 13th. If that isn’t a premise for a slasher movie, I don’t know what is. All I have to do is find some hot friends; moving right along…

It’s really been so long since I’ve written this thing that I can’t even remember what has happened since the last post. I really did intend to jot a few things down during the course of the vac, but anyone who really thought there was a chance of that happening is delusional.

I have found recently that often I start telling someone a story and they stop me and say “I’m sure you’ve told me this story before.” But I haven’t seen them in 6 months and the story in question only happened a month or two ago. Then I realise that they had read it in the ramble. On one hand this is quite cool, because it means that my toils aren’t completely in vain. On the other, it means that I might as well just be a computer screen, because in person I m just a bore who tells the same stupid stories again and again. Hey, whatever; I get to gaze at the handsomeness every morning; it’s everyone else who loses out.

First and foremost – congratulations to Hobbo and Little Red Riding Hood. What a magnificently cute couple they make.

I had a very chilled holiday – thanks for asking.

On Christmas I got torn like a pillow at the Neverland Ranch (too much?) because my evil cousins got very happy handed with the whisky. Cousin Wayne was found sleeping naked on the stoep the next morning; Cousin Gav woke up with my Old Man’s ID mysteriously having appeared in his pocket; my Old Man and I quite literally had to lean on each other on the walk home (my sister confiscated the car keys); I wrapped all my presents at 4 o’clock in the morning; the message I wrote in a book I gave to my sister looks like it was written by a right handed two year old with it’s left hand and I couldn’t work out how to spell ‘buy’ so I spelt it ‘bye’; apparently I woke a couple of people with phonecalls; I woke up the next morning to find my room littered with drying blobs of phlegm because I had tried to spit out the citronela candle from two metres away.

The massive New Year’s party that was planned for Knappy’s place kind of fell through because people bailed for one reason or another – so I jammed hard with Knaps, his girlfriend, his folks, and two couples of the folks’ friends. Oh ya, it was wild. Actually New Year’s is overrated anyway, so whatever.

It is very seldom that I can say I got more hammered on Christmas Eve than on New Years Eve. It was just one of those holidays, I guess.

I did make the massive journey into Plett a couple of times. I was most unamused at being told by Ebz before going to some of her mate’s houses for drinks “please, behave yourself, these are my friends”. What the hell? Then during the drinking games, she kept apologising because ‘they weren’t as crazy as the Rhodes ones’. Here is a well kept secret: Rhodes drinking isn’t different to any other place on Earth, it’s just a well-propounded myth.

On a random evening, when Don Rob and his cousin pulled through for an evening, we ended up at some party at the lifeguards house. There was a guy there I was talking to who I couldn’t quite fathom. I couldn’t work out if he was genuinely retarded or just wildly drunk because he almost seemed too well-spoken to be properly retarded but didn’t speak in the typical drunken speech patterns. Anyway, once all the lifeguards had retired to bed and just the random stragglers (ie. us and another group who had gate-crashed) were left, I asked in my best drunken undertones (ie. basically screaming) “so is that guy retarded, or what?” It turns out he was retarded, his father sponsored the lifeguard house, he was sleeping inside with the lifeguards who treated him as a kind of mascot and frequently beat the piss out of anyone who so much as looked at him funny. Smooth Jamo, smooth.

For a large portion of my life I have wandered the streets thinking that Celine Dion and Barbara Streisand should do an album together. What a happy Christmas eve it was for me then when I found out that this had in fact come to pass. Gloria in excelcius.

Even Knappy is on the bandwagon when it comes to ripping Ye Olde Knapster off. Here is an excerpt from an email he sent:

Just thought that I would tell you all that I am a big girl. I had to get
some of my precious life juice extracted from my body yesterday, and in case you
didn't know, my biggest fear in life is a needle being shoved into my fleshy
skin. So as the needle entered, the nurse alas could not find my vein, and
proceded to tell me as much. So, as she did this, I started to feel
slightly light-headed, and thoughts of having to have the needle puncture my arm
again entered my now blood-drained brain. I then boldly announced that I
was going to pass out, and promptly did just that. So there I was, head
fallen back, eyes rolled back into myhead, shaking around (apparently I went
into shock), with a needle stuck in my arm. I was sucked back into
reality, and it felt like a really wierd dream. Freaky. The nurse
had called for help so when I came to, there were two nurses, one of them
holding my head, and the other frantically trying to get an oxygen mask glued to
my face. This all happening in the Coporate Health Centre at Standard Bank
in town, a place where nurses are used to normal people, not big girls from
PE. Needless to say, no blood had been drawn. This still had to be
done. So they shipped a special sister from the laboratory downstairs
especially to come and draw blood from the big girl. So, after all that,
the next episode went by without hitch. I did feel light headed again, but
managed to remain conscious. Amazing.

It is going to be a boring six months without you around my guy.

I was woken by an sms coming through this morning. It said “listen to 94.7 now”. Indecent Obsession – Kiss Me. Oh ya. And to think poor old Moses only got a burning bush. It is without doubt a sign that a spectacular weekend awaits.

Ok. So at the somewhere towards the beginning of this week I started to hear rumblings about a certain email that was going around taking a huge amount of piss out of me. Fair enough; but what did anger me was the fact that whoever sent it didn’t have the balls to send it to me. But then I was alerted to the fact that it had been posted, in all it’s glory, on the Philosophers webpage. Having read said email, I would like to issue a statement:

Timothy Andrew Kluyts, Esq.

Regarding your letter voicing concerns about my general conduct, I would like to issue a formal apology.

Firstly, I would like to apologise for at the age of 22, making plans and then breaking them. Shame on me for not having a clear idea of what direction I should be taking in life; to think that I only have 47 more years until my allotted 3 score years and 10 is spent. I understand now that I should have, like you, stumbled upon a career path at the age of 12 which ignited my passions; I should have looked harder. I feel I owe you a special apology for forcing you through my actions to repeat the “Jamo, we weren’t going to smell the fucker” joke when the two of us were in the company of any third party for the past year.

An apology for my behaviour regarding ladies is also in order. I have never quite come to terms with why I have spent the greater part of my life being led around by my scrotum by one woman or another. I have always held in high regard your policy of ‘never go back to an ex’. The manner in which you dealt with your relationship with Toni was a model of this rule. I also held you in awe when all your mates were saying “look the chick is cheating on you” to which you replied “ya but…she says…drunk…can’t remember…no…now she says it never happened…everyone else is lying…” The way you just ditched her straight away was ruthless man. Were I but as cold and calculating as you, I would be a better man.

I apologise for never having kissed a girl who was passed out.

Also apologies for having a receding hairline and looking mildly Jewish. Aryans such as yourself are indeed the master race. The receding hairline is most frustrating because it prevents me from emulating you in maintaining the same side-path hairstyle since the age of 2.

I can only but aspire to be steel-sphinctered like your honourable self.

Yours in reverence
The Puddle of Bowel Discharge sometimes kindly referred to as Jamo.

I would walk to the ends of the earth for you my guy, but sometimes you really are a self-righteous prick. If someone would be kind enough to email that to him because he refuses to read the ramble online - not due to reasons of technological incompetence but rather pig-headedness - I would appreciate it.

A thousand apologies for the brevity and general lack of content in this week’s Ramble. There were supposed to be some photos and stuff but due to a technological glitch (my sending my flash drive through the washing machine) I was unable to post them this week.

An amusing read here if you are interested.

Love, kisses and man-meat to all.
Jamo.