Friday Ramble 03/02/2006

And a good day to you…

First things first, honourable mention to William for nailing the trivia: It was the Propellerheads from the album DecksandDrumsandRockandRoll. Nice one son. Also I called him about an hour ago and he was busy taking the day off because he had made a spectacle of himself at the work function the night before. Loving your work squire.

I went along to watch the filming of Corne and Twakkie’s ‘Most Amazing Show’ on Saturday morning. It was a lot of fun but I fear I will never be able to show my face in public again. For you to understand I need to begin our little tale on Friday night.

On Friday night over a few beers someone (ok, ok, it might have been me) came up with the bright idea that we must dress up Corne and Twakkie style. The idea still seemed great the following morning when we were still at the mildly pissed staged of being hungover. So we all dressed nicely. Flat-peaked caps, floppy hats, kort-broek, wife-beaters, etc.



Hobbo sent that photo with this quote:

Sex appeal is fifty percent what you’ve got and fifty percent what people think
you’ve got.
Sophia Loren.

You’re so deep guy. Also that’s a very easy thing for arguably the most beautiful woman ever to exist to say. People think I’m down-syndrome, isn’t.

Hot isn’t? Oh what fun. Then we managed to navigate our way to Auckland Park and the SABC. After a quick detour through the radio building and then another through another wrong building we found ourselves at the right place. We were told to wait, so we took a seat on the floor like the white trash that we were/are. All the other audience members appeared to be young black people dressed to the nines. No worries, we were still full of hungover-humour. Then the coolest thing happened while we were sitting there: a random little kid came and wrapped his arms around Scal’s neck from behind and gave him a hug. The chocolate sauce on top was the look of utter panic and terror on Scal’s face. I could just see it going through his mind: “oh shit, I’m on probation as it is”.

Anyway, we soon found ourselves being led to the studio and we made our way to the back corner of the benches. The floor manager came in, took one look and said, “could the guys who dressed up a bit please come to the front here so we can get some good shots of you”. At this point I was starting to sober up a bit and was for the first time beginning to think that maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. We duly found ourselves placed front and centre. Corne tapped Dan the Furniture Guy (who was the one responsible for the tickets) and said “I dig the clothes, guy”. Awesome.

We had to clap on command until my hands hurt. Laughter wasn’t such an issue because those guys are really funny bastards and some of the funniest stuff is the unscripted things they say between takes. It’s really crazy; they are in character the whole time. I have to be honest that once the initial excitement was over and the hangover, lack of sleep and really uncomfortable seating arrangement had set in and we had been there for about 4 hours, we got over it and quietly snuck away.

I’m not sure when it will be airing, but if my research is accurate then we were part of the second last recording so it won’t be for another while yet. But look out for us Tuesday nights SABC 2 at 10:00; we were on the ‘Science’ episode. Until then The Website, Guy for your amusement.

One of my favourite cartoons of all time: The Western Nostril. It hasn’t been updated in over a year but if you haven’t read it before, definitely give it a whirl. The ‘Briefly Popular Game of Squalf’ has been my favourite cartoon ever since I read it in the 2003 Laugh It Off Annual. It has such a Farside kind of edge to it.

A great little incident from Friday night was Scal being accosted at the bar by a crazy looking chick easily in her forties. It was abundantly clear that she wanted to go home with someone – she didn’t care who, how or why. She wasn’t in the least perturbed once we had persuaded her that Scal was my 16 year old brother. She gave him the strongest cocktail I have ever tasted at a bar (I think Gump nailed it on the head by calling it “Yaka Blue”). I’ll say one thing for ‘Q-Ba’ – it might be overpriced and pretentious, but they do not fuck about with their cocktails. Anyway, Gump and I tried to get Scal to down it as fast as possible having quickly worked out that SCAL + HEAVY HANDED COCKTAIL + DODGY 40 YEAR OLD = OUR AMUSEMENT. She jumped on the bandwagon and I told her to smack him if he didn’t down it. She responded: “Are you serious? I will. Seriously. I’m from Vanderbijl. I’ll tear his fuckin’ head off”. How could you walk away from such passion Scal? Ahhh, the good old south, where the only thing true about love is that she is your sister and men are frequently their own fathers.
She left by saying “Ok, I’ve got to go.”
Us (in chorus obviously): “Cheers”.
Her: “I’m way too drunk to drive”. Pause. Expectant look.
If I had a compassionate bone in my body, it probably would have made me feel a bit sad, but fortunately I was just bummed because Scal hadn’t done irreparable damage to his reputation like I had hoped. Oh well Scal, now you will forever be left to wonder “what if?” Maybe you let the love of your life just walk away my guy. Maybe.

We really do live in a country where entirely too many people of from de Souf and Oostrand. I happened to turn on 5fm yesterday and they were talking about urination habits or something (???). Anyway some clown phoned in the explain to the country how sometimes when he goes to take a slash, a pubic hair gets over the hole and he ends up pissing two streams.
I’m at a complete loss. What do you say to that? Thanks for that spanner. Really. At least the nation now knows. Are you sure one of those streams isn’t directed at your brain you fuckin’ neolithic doos.

Saturday night saw the quietest Harties Braai I have witnessed – there was no strip pool; Knappy didn’t wake up at four in the morning when Kluytsie got up to go have a drink of water, shove him out of the way and chunder in the kitchen sink; and Kluytsie didn’t utter the infamou words “…so I filled her up”. The important elements however, were as usual in attendance – magnificent surf and turf al la Beukes, great wines, and the usual volumes of mockery and laughter.

An awesome Sunday was spent at the Brits Golf Club hacking innocent patches of ground to death and cruising around golf carts. It was seriously the worst golf I have played in about 3 years (and that’s like Stevie Wonder saying “it’s the least I’ve seen for years). Anyway, I recommend it to anyone for value for money. Do it, just do it.

THE CAT

She was licking
the opened tin
for hours and hours
without realising
she was drinking
her own blood.

Spyros
Kyriazopoulos

I find my mind wandering over to that poem at least once every couple of hours since I read it a few days ago. It is bizarrely powerful in it’s simplicity.

Something peaked my curiosity the other day in my ongoing battle against metrosexuality. I have nothing against men trying to look their best, right. It’s just that these punks are moving the bar. Now chest-hair is considered gross by a lot of women. Check out the footballers of the 70s when they took off their shirts. They were real men. Georgie Best looked like he belonged in a zoo for Christ’s sake and the ladies loved him. Now look at the footballers after the game. Chests like a babies arse, but not quite so pretty. Maybe I’m a bit biased because The Italian Stallion once called me a ‘shaved baby gorilla’. (Whatever man, at least my arse doesn’t look like it’s wearing a toupee.) Once upon a time when sex was safe and cars were dangerous Bond, James Bond was a rugged unbreakable gentleman with a Glaswegian accent and a manly hairy chest. Now he looks like a pre-pubescent schoolboy. Although I guess it really does take a real man to get his chest waxed.

So anyway, my point is that while they are changing all the rules of what a good looking man should look like, they have all the practical capacity of a Smart car. That Stirling Light Lager ad campaign is a prime example. I mean, yes, yes, sure men probably shouldn’t get wrecked, behave like idiots and drive around in various states of retardation, so they produce a beer with the whole premise being that it’s lighter in alcohol and therefore more sophisticated. They seem to have completely ignored the fact that it tastes like catpiss.

Anyway, not sure what that was all about; I had a point somewhere, but I seem to have lost the thread somewhere. Man with hairy chest good; Man with prissy, naffy, bald chest little faggot. Even Hobbo’s got a couple of chest hairs.

For the Impoverished Teacher to Be and all other interested parties Short Stories at East of the Web for all your time-killing needs.

Young Ebz the self-proclaimed ‘belter’ messaged me seeming very proud of herself that she had a ticket to Metallica. Ebz, you don’t have to pretend to be hardcore for me – I know the only Metallica song you know is ‘Nothing Else Matters’ and you only got the ticket to see Simple Plan. It’s ok, embrace you teenybopper-ness.

A couple of months ago, I mentioned that I had noticed a Roxette revival taking place and I am very unhappy to announce another revival phenomenon I have noticed taking place – the indomitable Spice Girls. I’m not quite sure how to feel about this. It’s all about the lesser of two evils really because while they are quite an annoying sounding bunch (and like Roxette I often find myself quite to my own self-loathing, tapping my foot or singing along), anyone that keeps Mariah the Crackwhore off the airwaves for three minutes is to be commended. Speaking of which, the other day I was driving (sans CD player) and turned on the radio to find the Royal Wench herself on 5fm. My arm out of reflex changed to Highveld, only to find a different song by the Syphilitic Angel of All Things Rude and Unholy. Joseph Heller would have written a book about it if she had been around in his day. I hope she chokes while deep-throating seven Nigerian heroin dealers she couldn’t pay. Glitter that you shrieky noise-polluting, contemptible human virus.

Phew, now that I’ve got that off my chest.

The long awaited Mrs Bredin photos:





Shot to Mik again and there is a last very special one that has been added under his name in the players section. B-E-A-utiful.

Sozzle Cake

110g butter
75g castor sugar
2 large eggs
225g self raising flour
1 tbs salt
175g dried fruit
175g assorted nuts
2 tsp lemon juice
250g brown sugar
1-2 bottle(s) Scotch whisky to taste

Before you start, sample the whisky. To be sure the whisky is of the highest quality, pour one level cup into a glass and drink it as fast as you can, then repeat. Good, isn’t? Now go ahead. But before you start, sample the whisky. With an electric mixer, beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl. Add one teaspoon of the thugar and beat again. Meanwhile, make sure the whisky is of the highest quality. Try another top-up. Open another bottle if necessary.
Ass two large eggs, dried fruit and beat til high. If dried fruit gets stuck in beaters, pry loose with a screwdriver. Sample the whisky again, checking for tonscisticity. Next, sift three cups of salt or something. Sample the whisky. Sift half a pint of lemon juice. Fold in chopped butter and strained nuts. Add one babblespoon of brown sugar, or whatever colour you can find and mix well. Grease the oven and turn cake tin to 360 gredees. Now pour the whole mess into the oven and bake. On second thoughts, don’t bother. Check whisky again and go to bed.

As you know I am a man of special needs. Prepare the long rubber glove.
Eenie, meenie, miney, mo, I wonder where my glove will go.

Andrula Happy Happy Happy for yesterday.

I will be in the fairest Cape next week so won’t be able to produce a ramble, but if all goes according to plan I will have a little treat for you in its stead.

Love, kisses and the style of love
Jamo